The Move
by Turrislucidus
Summary: Let's see what the damage is— shall we? If the 'rock' of Charlie's house is thrown into The Chocolate Room 'pond', will the ripples wake, by the skinny-skin-skin of their sharp, straight teeth, sleeping dogs, better left lying? These metaphors, mixed as throughly as Wonka's chocolate, presage a story as dark and tasty. Now, open… AU/2005.
1. Challenges

Terence opened his eyes slowly, and only the merest crack. There should be no one in this spartan room above his shop—except him—but waking, he sensed the unmistakable presence of a someone else. Through barely parted lashes, the half-light of dawn proved him right. Willy Wonka, his reclusive friend, was peacefully curled in the winged armchair at the foot of the bed: eyes closed, hat unseen, one end of his Nerd filled walking stick cradled in the crook of a limp arm, the other laid across his tucked up knees, his chest rising and falling rhythmically in sleep.

Terence relaxed. The situation was no cause for alarm, and not happening for the first time. Otherwise unmoving, Terence flicked his eyes to the bedside table. Unlike that time, on this occasion, no little Square-Candy-That-Looks-Round painted face stared back at him. A gentle, involuntary sigh of disappointment escaped him.

"I brought you one if you want one," said Willy.

Studiously disguising the fact he'd been startled, Terence transferred his gaze back to the chair, finding Willy's sparkling, alert violet eyes on him like a crow, contemplating a shiny trinket. Abandoning his pretense of sleep, Terence sat up. "I was hoping for more than one." What an accomplished sneak Willy was—breaking and entering without a sound—and what a faker: he had me completely fooled. "I was sure you were asleep." Terence had no doubt Willy would make a more than passable fellow spy, if he ever decided to give up this Chocolate Factory thing of his.

A corner of Willy's mouth turned up wryly, pleased with the success of his ruse. Terence was sharp, and not easy to fool. Reaching into his emerald-green, frock coat pocket, Willy genially threw over a handful of Square Candies. "Couldn't sleep." Willy watched as Terence gathered up the candies from the blanket, piling them together in his hand. "Thought a change of scene might help." Alarmingly, it looked as if Terence was planning to eat the entire handful in one gulp. "Ew," Willy squeaked, leaning forward, genuinely appalled. "Don't _do_ that where _I_ can see it: all those little faces: it'd be a massacre." Willy flopped back, and shuddered where he sat.

"Feeling crowded over at your place, are you?" Terence lowered his hand, smiling. The Factory was huge. And only Willy would describe candy eating as a 'massacre'. "Buckets keeping you hopping? Tearing up the place, are they?" Terence reached toward the nightstand as he talked, depositing the candies, one by one. "Wild parties, with the Oompa-Loompas, going on at all hours of the day and night?"

Willy had moved the Buckets into his Factory a few days ago, after Charlie had accepted an apprenticeship, with the Bucket house slated to follow. Terence hadn't seen him since, and you never knew with Willy, how long these absences would last, so it was good to see Willy now, even if Terence couldn't resist needling him, and even if it was the dawn patrol: a time of day not his favorite, when he could be sleeping. Willy must have something on his mind.

Willy rolled his eyes at Terence's irreverent tone, tightening, in feigned disgust, the corner of his mouth so recently engaged in the wry smile. Terence was almost funny, but the reason Willy was here quashed his inclination to enjoy the humor. "No," Willy said, dispiritedly. At least Terence was arranging the candies on the bedside table, and not eating them. "Nothing like that. If anything they're too quiet: they tiptoe around… like they think I'll break, and it creeps me out, but that's not the problem."

"Not Charlie."

Willy stirred, and leaned his walking stick against the chair. "No," he allowed. "Not Charlie. He's a joy. Grandpa George."

"Grandpa George is the problem?"

"No. But he tries to follow me everywhere, like a shadow."

"That's the problem?"

"No. I'm faster."

"So, what's the problem?"

Willy looked pained, his eyes dull. The problem was that _this_ problem, was like _that _problem, and _that _problem was something he'd scrupulously avoided thinking about all his life. Willy didn't want to get near _that _problem now, but because of _this _problem, _that _problem wouldn't take the hint, and kept getting near him, so for _this _problem, he must. Swallowing, Willy shifted uncomfortably, looking for something else to think about, and avoid _that_ problem for one… minute… more… but _that _problem was why he was here. Sighing dejectedly, Willy's eyes settled on the innocuous little Squares. Happily charmed and distracted by what he saw, his mood shifted like sand underfoot: not too much, but enough. Terence had done a nifty thing: he had set up the Square Candies at an angle, so that when Terence spoke, they would look at Terence, and when he spoke they would look at him. The candies were an audience watching a tennis match—back and forth, back and forth—and amused by the arrangement, Willy's eyes again began to sparkle.

"The…" Willy waved his ever-gloved hand in a circular motion in Terence's direction, emphatically impatient, his voice energized, his eyes glued to the candies.

Terence, frowning in consternation at Willy's nervous activity, looked the situation over. It took a minute to catch on, but the candies, he decided, were the clue. Still not completely sure, he tentatively said, "problem…"

"Is…" rejoined Willy quickly, dropping his hand and smiling with satisfaction, watching the soothing little eyes keep time.

"That…"

"You…"

"Have…" a strange improv, but Terence was glad it was working so far.

"No idea how…" Willy's cadence had slowed.

"Much…" Terence was thankful for the lead Willy had given him with the extra words.

"Planning…" Willy's voice was beginning to sound strained.

"It takes…" guessed Terence slowly, feeling the rising tension, his gut tightening.

"Tomoveahouse." With the rapidly jumbled words, barely intelligible, barely out of his mouth, Willy bolted from the chair, scooping his upturned hat from the floor, already half-way to the door.

"STOP!" Terence's voice rang out shockingly, as he quickly leaned forward, smacking a frustrated hand meaninglessly on the blanket. No way Willy would stop. The little Square Candy eyes tried to jump off their little Square Candy faces, as if sharing the sentiment, and the shock, themselves. "IT'S NOT THE SAME!"

Willy stopped as if nailed to the floor. His shoulders were rigid, the velvet fabric of his coat stretched taut across his back. His arms, as rigid as his shoulders, flared a bit from his sides, as if the increased area they occupied would ward off the excruciation he was feeling: had avoided feeling, for as long as he could remember. Hatred felt awful. The fingers of his left hand curled and clenched, crushing the brim of the hat he held to shapelessness, just as the fingers of his right hand curled and clenched around the shaft of his walking stick, attempting to pulverize it, too. He was so close to agony he could almost touch it... almost, and he screamed because he couldn't help himself: 'it's close enough… close enough… CLOSE ENOUGH!' But Terence couldn't hear him, couldn't help him, because it was all happening in his head, and nowhere else. Willy's screams were silent, as, since that long ago day, they always were.

The atmosphere in the room had gone electric; Terence's nerves tensed with alertness, his senses sharpening as his mind raced. The Buckets had no way of seeing this coming, but I should have. Moving house—literally. Willy's father had done it, decades ago, Willy barely older than Charlie was now: moving Willy's house without his knowledge, leaving Willy behind in the process. It was cruel, deliberately cruel… past, but not forgotten, and not as handled as Willy pretends: how horrific for Willy, the victim of the earlier episode, to discover firsthand what planning such an event entailed, and how devastating.

Action was needed—Willy hadn't moved, but his breathing was becoming rapid, and shallow. Touching him was out, in this state Terence doubted Willy could stand it, but Terence must reach him. In a monotone, Terence began talking, not caring what he said, as long as the sound kept coming, an invisible lifeline to pull Willy back from whatever gripped him.

Though despairing the attempt would work, Terence kept it up, and gradually, the gambit had the desired effect. Willy's breathing slowed; he began to hear a faint stream of words, "…not happening now, over, long gone, history, you're fine, this is different, not the same…" He heard the words: over; gone; history; fine. He listened for more. "…You've already licked this one, old sport, left it in the dust, no cause to dredge it up, this is different, it's different, different, not the same, it's not the same…" That was true. Willy liked this stream of talk better than the stream going on in his head. This _was _different. His hands relaxed, the numbness leaving them, his arms and shoulders following. Aware of his surroundings again, Willy studiously brought his hat up to his face, and examined the brim. Turning around, he held the mangled hat toward Terence. "This is toast," he whispered.

"Good man," said Terence, mildly, before he could think. He leaned back. Willy remained where he was, and Terence, encouraged, continued his bid to return the grisly to the mundane. "Good," he said again, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Now, dear chap, forget about the hat, put one foot in front of the other, slowly, take a deep breath—two if you like—walk back, nonchalantly mind you, to the chair, and sit down." Willy looked steadier. "I know what you mean, have _no_ idea what you're going through, but I know you know I know you have a plan, or you wouldn't be here." Terence smiled reassuringly. "Tell me what it is."

Oh, the relief! Willy felt the warmth being understood brought suffuse his body, and basking in it, he stood motionless a moment longer, letting it build. He felt a smile. "Ya know, ya sound like me."

"Intentionally, dear chap, and it's not easy on short notice," replied Terence breezily. "Thanks for thinking so. I'm hoping it gives me credibility when I say I know what you mean. So sit down already, and spill the beans."

After all the anxiety the changes made in the past few days had brought, Willy gratefully sat down again. If Terence was taking this calamity in stride, he could, too. But having settled himself back in the chair, Willy found he could say nothing, unexpectedly exhausted, and he sat instead, wondering how long it would take for this state to pass. Terence didn't seem to mind in the least, more than content to wait, and so they sat, as the room gradually lightened. After a while, Terence popped a Square Candy in his mouth, crunching down on it unconcernedly. Yuck, thought Willy, watching the small decapitation with horror: but watching the destruction brought back his tongue. "The plan is… you do it."

"Me?" Terence's eyebrows shot up. Willy was talking again, but what he was saying wasn't what Terence was expecting to hear. "You still want to go through with this? Why move it at all? I'm sure the Buckets are perfectly happy where they are, without it. If you ask me, they'll never miss it."

Willy shrugged, less than happy with himself. "_I'll_ miss it, and Bucket-wise, some are, some aren't. I thought, hoped really, I'd be one of the are-s, but I'm definitely one of the aren't-s."

"Is thinking you'd be one of the are-s why you wrecked the place?" Terence may not have seen Willy lately, but he'd moseyed down to the Bucket house the other day to find no Buckets, and a very much enlarged, gaping hole in the already gaping-hole-equipped Bucket roof. The ad hoc renovation rendered the house uninhabitable.

Willy sighed. "Yeah, that was me, but that wasn't why. I had to get them out of there. Doing it made me look bad, but I had no choice. After the grand announcement at that dinner, my expectation was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Buckets at the gates the next morning, but by afternoon, no Buckets, and after school Charlie reported dithering among the grands, about how, and when." Willy shook his head in disbelief, making a face that mirrored it. "Can you imagine? Dilly. And dally. About moving into _my _Factory. The right 'when' is right then."

"Or next morning, if it's late, and you're over eighty," grinned Terence. "How did you expect them to get there?"

"I dunno. Walk? I've seen them all do it. Except for The Stickler."

"Josephine?"

"Yeah, that one." Willy considered. "They could've taken a cab. They could've taken two cabs… heck, a cab for each of them!" Willy drew himself up, pouting peevishly. "You'd think they'd know I'm good for the fare."

Terence laughed outright, and Willy, the knowledge of his worldwide candy empire backing him, instantly dropped the put-on pout, and smiled wickedly.

"But instead?"

"Instead," replied Willy, haughtily, "they left it up to me, and that's what you get. Dilly, dally, dither: what if they changed their minds? Had second thoughts? I'm not everyone's cat's meow. We can't have that now, can we? So Charlie and I jumped into the Great Glass Elevator, and I crashed the roof so they couldn't use the house, loaded 'em all up—including the bed—and hauled 'em off to the Factory."

"And the rest of their things?"

"The personal things? Noah and Nora and Charlie boxed 'em up, and—not that they needed one—brought 'em back in one of my trucks." Willy sat back in awe. "Noah and Nora know how to drive."

Willy said the last sentence as if the ability to drive a truck were a miraculous feat. Terence decided not to investigate the incredulity; it was already all too easy to get sidetracked talking to Willy. "Forget the driving: you have the Buckets, and their things. Why do you still want the house?"

"Because I've already told you, I don't want parens living in my Factory. I said I wouldn't like it, I've tried it, and I don't like it," answered Willy, testily. For some words, Willy preferred Latin over English, 'parents' being one of them. "Technically, the Bucket house is _not_ my Factory. If they live there, they're in the Factory, and out of the Factory, at the same time. That suits me, and it will suit them." Willy paused, and the pout was back, sincere this time. Even he thought this was a mighty fine hair to split, but splitting it made the dynamic work for him, so split it he would. "I bet they want a place in the Factory that's theirs and not mine as much as I do. Besides which, that's what Charlie wants: his house in The Chocolate Room. You saw the drawing he made, and you know we made a deal, and a deal's a deal. Will you do it?" Willy's manner was gruff, but his eyes were pleading.

Terence had decided at the first request. "It's a deal."

"Ahh…" Willy looked like Atlas shrugging the world off his shoulders, and with a deep sigh, he closed his eyes. A moment later they snapped back open, and he was all business. "Good man." Willy's eyes glittered with purpose. "As to resources, you have carte blanche, other than Oompa-Loompas. I don't want Oompa-Loompas out in the cold. As to method, do it in pieces, one piece at a time, all of them separate, all carefully marked, for re-assembly later."

"Because?"

Smiling now, Willy tilted his head back, and said in his best Mr. Roger's voice, "Can you say, 'septicemia'?" He lowered his gaze and met Terence's, saying in his normal voice, "Did my Factory seem like a place filled with germs to you? That house is a pus pocket, no offense, surrounded by a dump…"

"None taken, but I'm not a Bucket," answered Terence, matter-of-factly popping another of the irresistible Square Candies into his mouth. He knew Willy wasn't being mean when he described the tiny, ramshackle Bucket house that way, and Terence knew Willy knew what he was talking about. Willy had explored the Bucket house in meticulous detail during the dinner—while everyone else was eating—that Mrs. Bucket, having invited both Terence and Willy earlier in the afternoon, hadn't expected Willy to attend. Her surprise when he did—and her surprise when she learned the reason—almost knocked her over, and she wasn't alone. It astounded her entire family to learn the news of Charlie's apprenticeship. But it wasn't every day Willy Wonka took on an apprentice, and on the day he did, try as he might, he didn't see any way forward except to clear it with the parens himself: especially as Charlie's dream was to live in the Factory, with his familia in tow. It was a bizarre dream in Willy's view, but there it was, and there was no getting around it. The dinner invitation he'd thought he'd duck, turned out to be just ducky to get that done.

Remembering Willy's roaming, so disconcerting to the Buckets, Terence was still amused by the comment that had come floating down from Charlie's loft, once, after Willy lay down on it, the creak of the bedsprings of Charlie's cot had subsided. 'Terrific view you have here, Charlie.' It was a view of Willy's own dear Chocolate Factory, through the hole in the roof. 'Won't you miss it?'

'Yes, Willy! I will!' Charlie, sitting at the table, surrounded by his happy and admiring family, had yelled joyously back up. 'But it will be the only thing! Because everyone, and everything else, is coming with me! And that view is where we're going!' And Charlie had burst into exultant laughter, beside himself with happiness.

Willy's silky voice snapped Terence back to the present.

"You ate that. I saw it. That's the second one. I already said 'Ew'. Pl-ease don't make me say it again."

"Too late," muttered Terence.

Willy felt himself returning to form. "Ew," he laughed. "I want that entire collection of detritus dismantled, with each piece individually steam-cleaned, and disinfected within an inch of its life."

Terence had picked up another Square Candy, but in deference, he put it down again. "Life? I think you're too late for that, too. That house doesn't owe anybody anything."

Willy waved a hand good-naturedly, settling more comfortably into the chair. Now that this distasteful phase of the moving project was out of his hands, and into a trusted someone else's, he felt scads better. "Whatever. If it gets to go in my Chocolate Room, it gets to go there spotless, so it gets to get dismantled."

"It shall be as you say, Exalted One," murmured Terence.

Willy grinned, ignoring the friendly sarcasm, giggling a little as he weighed 'Exalted One' in his mind, turning it over, considering whether he preferred it to 'Amazing Chocolatier'.

Guessing what Willy was thinking, Terence ignored him, and made a steeple of his hands. "I'll dismantle, you disinfect." Taking a moment to mull over the possibilities, Terence was pretty sure he knew how he wanted to go ahead with this. A couple of phone calls should do it, and he could turn the heavy lifting over to much younger people, with excellent result. Something else occurred to him. "Why didn't I hear the Great Glass Elevator?"

"I walked. It was dark."

"It's not now. I'll walk you back."

* * *

_Today, February first, is a fun day to start a _Charlie and The Chocolate Factory_ fanfic story, so I have. This is a sequel to 'The Interview', but, with character familiarity, it can likely stand on its own. If you'd like the short course on Terence, see chapters 'The Return' and 'The Great Glass Elevator' in the previous story._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. __Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	2. Changes

It was the movement in the early morning light that caught Nora Bucket's attention, and holding the handle of the steaming mug of aromatic, Lavender Bilberry tea she brewed for herself, Nora pressed her forehead to the window pane, to see more closely what it was.

What it was, was who it was: Willy Wonka, walking as if his feet were encased in cement, crossing the street in front of his Factory, his friend Terence leading the way. Nora's other hand slipped around the smooth curve of the mug, cradling it, the warmth reassuring, as she wondered for the umpteenth time since the family landed here, if moving into Wonka's Factory hadn't taken them out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire. There was _so_ much she didn't know about Willy Wonka.

For one thing, who—except Willy Wonka—would stock Lavender Bilberry tea as a staple? It was the only tea Nora had found in the suite's small, but otherwise well supplied kitchen.

For another thing, Nora had known for years, in her deepest heart, that Willy Wonka was dead. It was the only explanation that fit, when the Factory re-opened: some conglomeration had somehow wrangled control of the place, with an imported workforce brought in by the parent company, to keep the secret, and milk the benefit of the brand name. The story of Mr. Wonka's developing a case of reclusiveness was a good one—and necessary, since Mr. Wonka was long gone—but for anyone who knew him, like Joe, it didn't ring true: Willy Wonka, first, and foremost, was a showman.

Nora glanced back at the quiet living room. She was still the only one awake, and knowing she had some quiet minutes ahead of her, she turned back to the window. Terence had made it across the street, and with no key, easily pushed open the small gate to Nora's right. She couldn't help but smile at that. It was one mystery solved, at least: the trick to getting into the Chocolate Factory was as dead simple as the fact that Willy Wonka lived: the trick was Willy Wonka wanting you in: if you had that going for you, it was child's play. Putting her fingertips to her lips, Nora smothered a laugh: she was finding out 'child's play' was more than an apt description for Willy Wonka.

Having gained the Factory grounds, the gate closed, Willy had picked up his pace; but instead of crossing the courtyard, as Terence was doing, he hugged the wall to his left. Terence, noticing, altered course, and joined him. When he was sure he could no longer be seen from the street, Willy abruptly stopped and got comfortable: leaning his shoulders against the wall, he raised one foot, and placed it flat against the wall as well. Though it was cold out, Willy, in his long, black great-coat, looked plenty warm, and like he'd be there all morning. Terence, standing with his back to the window, didn't look like he was in any hurry, either.

Nora wondered if she should keep watching. It seemed impolite, but even from this distance, she could see there was something wrong with Willy's hat. The brim wasn't symmetrical, and it was a bowler, not a top hat. She knit her brow in consternation. He also lacked the sunglasses, odd or otherwise, without which, he never ventured out. Very weird, for Willy. Even what you thought you knew about the man, didn't always hold true. She could plainly see the two were carrying on a conversation, and judging by the give and take, it was something important. Defiantly, for her, Nora decided there was no expectation of privacy for conversations held in a courtyard, and anyway, she couldn't hear them, and they'd never know she was at the window. To make sure, she took a half-step back, but sticking to her decision to observe, the half-step was her only concession.

Watching the very much alive Willy Wonka very carefully, it was no mystery to Nora why she preferred thinking him dead all these years: he was the White Knight whose Factory gave the family its leg-up on the good times, and in her fantasies, she'd always thought him the White Knight who would save the family from the bad times. There was no rhyme or reason for her thinking this, Nora knew that, but it had made her happy to pretend. In her idle dream, only death could stop him: so that was how, for years, she'd thought of him.

Nora looked again at her toasty warm, sumptuous surroundings, letting her eyes lose focus. Though the Factory closed, the hard times hadn't happened right away: Willy Wonka paid his employees handsomely, and although Joe didn't find another job—employers thought him too old to hire—his savings from his work at the Chocolate Factory, carefully hoarded, lasted an astonishingly long time. Her dad, George, had a good job then, too, repairing clocks, and her husband Noah's Smilex position promised a bright future: bright enough to decide to have a child... and they had: Charlie was the light of their lives. Then, when Charlie was four, things took a turn: by the time he was five, things were worsening. Bit by bit, everything Nora thought solid turned insubstantial; jobs and futures disappeared: the downward spiral was irresistible, like quicksand.

Through it all, Joe refused to let Willy Wonka die, and for Charlie's sake, Nora went along with the charade. Charlie loved the stories about Mr. Wonka, and his Chocolate Factory, that Joe told, and the family willingly indulged them: joining in with an 'oh' or 'ah' when called for: even, now and then, throwing in their own comments. They all tacitly agreed it was better to play along with whoever was _really_ running the place now, and keep Charlie's belief in the famous Chocolatier alive, because although someday Charlie would outgrow his love for the Chocolate Factory on the top of the hill, until then, the stories were a harmless escape in an otherwise harsh existence.

Whoever was running the place… the thought was enough to refocus Nora's eyes, and burning with anger, she looked daggers at the Chocolatier in the courtyard. Charlie, on February tenth, _not even three weeks ago, _had brought home WHOEVER was running the Chocolate Factory, and it was _Willy effing WONKA!_ He'd been here ALL the time, ALIVE, _and he hadn't saved them_! Every sinew in her tensed, like a bow pulled tight, in that split second before the arrow is let fly. Knowing it irrational—as irrational as her imaginings—and not caring, Nora was furious: the hardships of all those years, released at last, clouded her ability to think clearly.

At that moment, Willy glanced toward the window, and Nora, brought back to her senses, quickly dropped her head to stare into the now cold mug of tea. When she looked again, a minute later, Willy, head slightly cocked, was thoughtfully contemplating Terence's upraised fist. Nora moved closer to the window, watching in fascination. Slowly, Willy made a fist of his own, and with it, delicately tapped the fist Terence held out. Terence turned immediately on his heel, grinning, and left, as easily as he entered. Nora felt the briefest frisson of unease at what she was seeing now: it was the trick to getting _out _of the Factory: Willy Wonka letting you go.

Feeling emotionally limp, Nora watched Willy watch Terence go. With Terence surely gone, Willy slowly pushed off the wall with his foot, and standing now, he deliberately looked to the window: directly into Nora's eyes: holding them for a long minute, the dark violet of his inscrutable. When Nora was sure Willy would hold the gaze forever, she saw the wisp of a smile lift the corners of his mouth, and carelessly hefting his cane, he turned away, heading toward the loading bays, disappearing through a door at the end of the wing. Freed from the mesmerizing stare, with a barely audible gasp, Nora hastily took two steps back. Shoving aside what her senses told her, she insisted to herself that couldn't have happened: it wasn't possible Willy Wonka knew she was watching. It was a trick: something the light, or her imagination, or this Factory, was playing on her. Anger flared again, the fingers of her free hand curling into a fist. None of this was fair: it was all unfathomable. Events were sweeping her along, taxing her ability to keep up, making her fanciful, and skittish. Nora prided herself on being none of those things, and her anger at finding herself in these circumstances threatened to blind her.

Charlie's joyful voice, as he scampered from his room, blessedly served to restore some of her lost equilibrium. "Are you up, Mum?"

"Shh, dear, I'm here."

Charlie dashed across the room, and threw his arms around her legs in a bear hug, almost spilling her tea. "Oh, Mum, isn't the Factory wonderful? Everyday I wake up I still can't believe we're here."

"Shh... careful, sweetheart, the tea!" The look on Charlie's delighted, upturned face made her laugh, as her fist unclenched, and she wrapped her arm around her boy, bending down to hug him back. "Yes, it is, and I can't either." Steadying herself, Charlie reminded her just where she was, and taking a deep, calming breath, she let her anger go. Shame replaced it. She may have discovered Willy Wonka was no White Knight, but, standing as she was, with _her_ family, in _his_ Factory, undeniably, save them he had. Somewhat mollified, Nora still sagged under the weight of the frustration that clung to her: she wasn't an ingrate, but there was _so much_ about Willy Wonka she didn't know.

* * *

The telephone calls Terence made after dropping Willy at his Factory, were to the University, two towns over. It had a renowned Archaeology Department that Terence figured was just what the doctor, er, Chocolatier, ordered. What wonderful practice it would be for the students, to get some hands on experience on a bona fide dig. Of course it wasn't a dig, it was a dismantle, but the skills required in this case were the same: careful handling in dismantling the antique building, with meticulous cataloging, and packing of same.

The head of the department, hearing Terence's proposal, didn't turn him down outright. It was Saturday, and Terence had managed to track him down at home: if Terence was a crackpot, he was a determined, resourceful crackpot, and the idea wasn't without merit. A detailed discussion ensued, this Terence fellow insisting on some particulars, two being foremost: the project must start right away, and be completed as quickly as possible. "There's the rub then," he told Terence. "The University doesn't do anything right away, and nothing happens quickly. But I have a colleague who might be interested, very familiar with digs, I'm sure he can help you. Strictly ad hoc, of course. I'll give you his number."

Undaunted by the setback, Terence went through his spiel again, with the interested colleague, who _was_ interested: very interested in fact, when Terence sweetened the pot, by including a grant to fund the professor's pet dig, in Mycenae, Greece, for another year.

"You're on Mr. James. I can have a team lined up, and start Monday, bright and early," he said.

On his end, Terence smiled. "Terence is fine, and it's early now. How 'bout starting this afternoon?"

There was a long pause. "Okay, Terence—I hear you. This afternoon. I'll meet you on the site. Where is it?"

Terence told him, and hung up.

* * *

That afternoon found Terence at the Bucket house, in deep consultation with the learned archeologist, and the senior members of his team. Rounded up on short notice, with the mission outlined, the youngest spoke for all of them, when he out-of-turn, dubiously blurted, "Seriously? Someone wants to keep this wreck?"

"Seriously. Someone does, and it's very important you don't make…" Terence was about to say 'hash', but he thought of Willy, and said instead, "kindling out of it."

Exchanging glances, the team nodded. A grant was a grant, and this project was a piece of cake.

* * *

By Monday, the project was in full swing. Archaeologists, and archaeologist wannabes alike swarmed the site. Trim was coming off the house, and the chimney and roof were losing components at a good clip. At this rate, with this workforce, the project wouldn't take ten days.

"Where do you want these crates stored, Mr. James?" asked a student, as the day waned, and it became late afternoon.

"Terence," answered Terence, thinking. It was a good question. Should he run them up to the Factory? In what? Wait till he had more?

Another student, finishing nailing shut the top of one of the crates, solved the problem. Standing up and pointing with her hammer, she asked, "Are you expecting a Wonka truck, Mr…" she caught herself, "Terence."

'Mr. Terence', thought Terence, and gave up. Willy was right: it is maddening not being called what you ask to be called. He turned to see what she saw: a Wonka truck making its way to the site. "No, I wasn't, but we may as well use it, if its gone to all this trouble to come down here."

Like dominos falling, work suspended as each person in turn noticed the truck, until no one moved at all. The question of who would get out of the truck was too compelling to ignore: it might be Willy Wonka himself. The rumors of recent sightings of the man were rampant. Terence was as transfixed as the rest of them: Willy was unpredictable.

Maneuvering carefully, the truck parked within easy distance of the stacked crates. The door opened, and out jumped a warmly dressed, petit, middle-aged woman, with shoulder length, dark curly hair, and no one else. With a collective sigh, their leader admonishing them, everyone, except the group around Terence, returned to work.

Nora made her way over to Terence, taking in the scene as she did so. After the quiet of the suite in the Factory, the noise and bustle were disconcertingly welcome, and Nora was smiling with what she was seeing: the family's dilapidated house, being treated as if it were a rare and valuable artifact, and it tickled her no end. "It's nice to see you, Terence," she said. "This truck and I are at your disposal. He'd like the crates brought up at the end of each day, but we can load them as they're packed."

The students exchanged skeptical glances. He? A Wonka truck? Was this a Chocolate Factory project? Wonka's Chocolate Factory? Really?

Terence stepped in, asking the question on all their minds. "Is he coming down?"

Nora laughed, a sweet musical laugh, making no effort to keep what she was saying to herself. Everyone nearby heard her, and passed it along. "No! Of course not! You know he never leaves his Factory. He sent me, and you're stuck with that." She laughed again.

"Hm." Terence was wary. Shrugging it off, he continued jauntily, "Right you are. Everyone, this is Mrs. Bucket, and this is the Bucket house we're taking apart, so stow any disparaging comments you may have about it while in this lady's presence. Okay. Have truck, will load. Let's get loading!"

The students moved off to get to the task, but Terence put a hand on Nora's arm to keep her from joining them. "Are you enjoying the Factory?"

"The Factory?" she murmured, coyly sarcastic. "I couldn't tell you. All I've seen of it so far is the entrance hall, and the corridors leading to the suite he's given us, until the house gets set up. Oh, and today I can include the loading bays." Her eyes clouded. "I think it's awful he's shifted the responsibility for this to you. You have a shop of your own to run, and he doesn't even care." Suddenly her demeanor changed, and she was all smiles. "To answer your question, everything is perfectly lovely!"

Terence, clued in, swung 'round to see Noah and Willy, approaching companionably on foot from the direction opposite the Factory, Charlie with them, smiling, contentedly holding his father's hand.

"Who are all these people?" asked Willy inquisitively, taking in the bustling scene. "Am I bankrupt?"

Appreciative of Willy's well orchestrated misdirection, and always glad to see him, Terence resisted a bow, and settled for theatrically spreading his arms. "Not financially. These are the people making your dreams come true. They're students, and professors, from the University."

"Sure are a lot of them," offered Noah, rocking on his heels. Nora moved over to join him. Charlie ran excitedly to the house, to get a better look at the goings on.

"Watch out, dear," called Nora, perfunctorily. She knew Charlie would pay attention.

Willy's interest was elsewhere. "Who are _those_ people?"

Terence pivoted, to take in the group Willy was discreetly indicating with the top of his walking stick. "Those would be the rubberneckers, gawking at the activity. Want me to get rid of 'em?"

Willy considered. "Yes." He didn't care about the people, if they kept their distance, but he wanted to see how Terence would do that.

At the word, Terence strode purposefully toward the bystanders. "Hey! You folks!" he yelled. "I'm so glad you're here! We could sure use some extra help loading these heavy, awkward, splinter-y crates. Come on over, all y'all!" He matched his words with a 'come hither' arm motion. "The more the merrier!"

The knot of people broke into murmurs: murmurs expressing gripping reasons why they suddenly couldn't stay: like a mist, they all but one, melted away. That one, moved toward the truck.

Satisfied, Terence backtracked quickly to the little group, grinning knowingly to himself.

"Cool," said Willy.

"Where do you get these hats?" asked Terence, still grinning.

Willy preeningly put a hand to his hat, and flashed a smile. "Like it?" It was a tan fedora. "It's a hat I don't wear: the color is terrible."

Nora rolled her eyes disgustedly at the illogical statement, a gesture missed by everyone but Terence.

"I have a whole room full of them," finished Willy, oblivious. "Hats I don't wear, I mean. Not hats like this one." Frowning to think he hadn't been clear, Willy turned back toward the house. "I wanted to see this," he said, wistfully. "I hope you don't mind."

Terence found the forlorn note in Willy's voice touching. "I don't, but you can't stay. Even with your wily hat disguise, it won't take long before these people cotton on to who you are, and nothing will get done, after that."

"We're done loading the crates that are ready," sang out one of the students.

"My cue to exit." Willy bowed his head. "It's too bad I can't stay. It looks pretty neat, when you're in on it, and it's not to hurt someone." Stiffly, he caught Nora's eye. "Shall we, chauffeur?"

Before she could move, Terence stepped forward. "Can Noah take you? I'd like Nora's opinion on some of the logistics; Charlie's too, if that suits."

"Noah, then." Willy's face was impassive. "Nora decides about Charlie." Not waiting for any further comments, Willy made for the truck with his head bent, Noah at his side like velcro. No one would bother Willy Wonka if Noah Bucket had anything to say about it.

"Why did you want me to stay?" asked Nora, as she watched her husband, with her benefactor, make their way to the truck.

"There's something I need to show you, on the other side of town. Charlie should have the benefit, too."

"Why?"

Terence was tight-lipped. "You'll know when you see it. Words don't do it justice."

* * *

At the truck, the lone remaining gawker hovered.

The long black coat, oversized sunglasses, stacked boots—with three inch heels—and the fedora, worn by the man getting in the passenger side, caught a student's attention. Where had this guy come from? "Hey, dude!" the student called out, amiably. "Rad hat."

The man smiled, and nodded back, remaining silent. Ticked at the lack of an audible answer, the student was suddenly, inexplicably, determined to make this man talk. Most people would have answered him already. "What's in the cane?"

The question started a tug-of-war in the man's head, with the hesitation so long, the student all but lost hope the man would answer: but answer he did, his voice high, the cadence lilting. "That's need to know, but if you need to know, they're Nerds, Nerd, and now you know." The man laughed as he slammed the door, and the truck backed away. The student laughed too: not so much at the words he'd heard, but at the infectious joie de vivre the man gave off, in waves, especially when he laughed. Shaking his head at his from-out-of-nowhere, sudden burst of good feeling, the student returned to his work, happily energized. An odd answer, from an odd man, oddly fun.

The gawker, taking it in, dug out a notebook, scribbling in it madly. Now he knew, too. The Nerds gave it away. He was sure he had just seen none other than Mr. Willy Wonka, and as a reporter, he'd share this lucky sighting—and all its details—with his loyal readers, in the very next edition of the local paper.

* * *

_February Eleventh, hmm... another good day to update… thankfully, that's it for the anniversaries. Thank you gift-givers, for your reviews—for your reviews are, indeed, lovely gifts._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. __Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	3. Impossible

Dr. Wilbur Wonka looked forward to his evening paper, and always had: it was all you ever wanted to know—and a lot you didn't—about the world, and the local goings-on, delivered right to your doorstep. It was very convenient, made all the more so, as Dr. Wonka's doorstep wasn't convenient to anything. Dr. Wonka lived alone, and so did his house, which is to say, he had no nearby neighbors.

Dr. Wonka liked it that way: it made it harder for people to pester him with nosey questions, and though the questions he wanted avoided changed over the years, they remained no less nosey, or pesky.

For years now, the most pesky question he faced from his deluded, simpering, meddling patients was: "Are you related to Willy Wonka, the famous Chocolatier?" That question made him want to spit, and rather than answer it, he often asked _them_ to spit—he was a dentist, and he could do that—but on this night, as he stooped to retrieve the evening edition from his stoop, he allowed that that loathsome question was marginally preferable to the pesky question of many years ago: "Whatever happened to Willy?" which, he allowed, was easier to answer than the most pesky question of all the pesky questions, from even more years ago: "Whatever happened to Mina?"

Even thinking about _that_ question, even after all these years, in the otherwise even-minded Dr. Wonka, still managed to elicit from him the merest of shudders. Dr. Wonka tried—and failed—to stop himself from looking furtively about, as the answer entered his head, but after a moment, with a short, dry laugh, he regained control of himself. He needn't be concerned: as usual, there were only the wind and stars to see him.

Rising with difficulty, Dr. Wonka placed the fingers of his right hand against his side, snaking the pressure he applied there toward his back. It did little to quell the ghost of the twinge of pain he felt, for not the first time, but the action helped him feel he was addressing it. The pain came more often now; usually when he was bending, and it bothered him just a little he was losing weight, for no reason. The pain, like the questions, was pesky, but unlike the questions, it was beginning to pester him more of the time. The people asking the questions after all, sharing the fate of his practice, had all but died out.

Turning to re-enter his house, his eyes becoming slits in annoyance, Dr. Wonka slapped the paper he held roughly against his other hand, as if the noise of the slap would scare away the ghosts his thoughts conjured up. It worked well enough, and Dr. Wonka brusquely closed the door of his house—and of his mind: the ghosts shut out, as effectively as they always were.

* * *

Before the light began to fade, and well before the ghost of the thought formed in Dr. Wonka's head to retrieve his newspaper, Nora Bucket stared at a ghost herself: the ghost of Willy Wonka's childhood home. It left her aghast. "You can't have meant this literally, Terence!" she cried out, fiercely clutching Charlie's shoulders, planting him to the spot, as if Charlie might also disappear, like the house they didn't see. "It's impossible! You can't do it."

"This proves, with the right motivation, you can," was Terence's terse reply.

"A monster's motivation," breathed Nora, still struggling to take in what she wasn't seeing, and what she was.

"Mum!" Charlie, cried out, twisting. "That's too tight."

Nora snatched her hands away. "I'm sorry, dear."

"That's okay, Mum," Charlie said kindly, rubbing a shoulder. His Mum looked shook up, but Charlie was a child, and when Terence had said, during the dinner he attended at the Bucket house after Charlie's private tour, that Dr. Wonka moved Willy's entire house, in one afternoon, that's exactly what Charlie thought Terence meant. This must be where the house had stood, and 'no house' is exactly what Charlie expected to see. "Is this the memory, Terence?"

"The memory?" echoed Nora.

"Sure," said Charlie, a little exasperated at his normally quick-witted mother. "We were working in his office after school on Friday— you know, Mum— and he moved the old drafting table he designed the Factory on next to his desk, so I could sit at it, and we could see it together, to plan how to move the house."

Terence pricked up his ears. "How'd that go?"

"Good for a minute. Willy was all excited, and spun circles in his chair, moving it over to the table." Charlie, remembering, smiled, and then laughed a little, as he had at the time. "Then he picked up a pencil, to make a list of things we should do, and then he got all tight, and stopped in mid-air, and froze for a minute, and then he put the pencil down." Charlie frowned. "Then he put his head in his arms on the desk, and then after a while he sat up, and pushed his chair back away from the table, and then he said he was sorry, but he couldn't have the memory of the memory in his office, or he could never use his office again, and he couldn't have that!"

Nora was taken by the simplicity of the words: Charlie's translation of what was no doubt Willy's gobbledygook speak, but this time she didn't fault Willy for his indulgence in verbal obscurity: if this happened to her, she'd find ways of saying it without saying it, too.

Terence let it all wash over him. "And then?"

"And then we spent the rest of the time with the Oompa-Loompas, moving the drafting table to Reception instead, and then it was time for dinner."

Reception? Nora pursed her lips at the revelation. She _had_ seen that room, forgetting to list it in her zeal to keep the list she gave Terence short. On Sunday, asking Charlie to show her and Noah where he was working, Charlie had shown them the room with the drafting table. It was a lovely drafting table, a beautiful antique, in a lovely room, and Nora had thought it Willy's office: it looked exactly like one. Nora nervously made a fist, afraid to ask, afraid she'd shortchanged Willy again, but bravely she knelt, and did ask. "That wasn't Willy's office, Charlie?"

"No, Mum," was Charlie's fully exasperated answer. "Didn't you see the button I pushed on the Elevator to get there? It said 'Deception', because it's 'Reception' and _not _his office. It's an office just for show, for people he doesn't want to know better. But it's an okay place to work: he says he hardly ever goes there, so he doesn't care about memories there, and anyway, he said he won't have to remember the memory, if someone else does it."

Nora sat back on her heels, letting her hands drop into her lap, thinking over all she'd seen and heard since coming here. It was an easy stance to retreat to; her body felt too heavy with sadness to do anything else. Charlie waited patiently; the way, Nora knew, he did with people not coping well, and it was odd for her to think Charlie thought her one of them. Terence was equally patient, and she was grateful for that, too.

Like an invisible crutch, their combined patience brought Nora out of her gloom: as awful as this was, this was also ancient history, and having survived this once, Nora didn't blame Willy if he chose not to try for twice. Taking Charlie's hand in hers, she gave it a little squeeze. "I guess Willy prefers not to dig this up, dear," she said, with a rueful smile.

Terence, not believing his ears, almost slapped his thigh. Instead, he grinned delightedly, and held out a hand to help her up. "Why, Mrs. Bucket! I do declare! Did you just make a joke? With a pun? Why, I believe there's hope for you yet— Willy would be proud of you."

Nora tilted her head to look at Terence seriously. "I hope so. Right now, I'm one of the people who doesn't know better, and I know that better change."

Terence wiggled the fingers of the hand she wasn't taking in encouragement. "You _are_ getting the hang of this, aren't you! Come on, I'll help you up."

Nora took his hand.

"Can I explore?" implored Charlie, now that his Mum looked out of her funk. "This looks like a park."

With Terence's help, Nora got back to her feet. "Of course, dear, we'll watch from here, but it'll be dark soon, so make the most of it."

Smiling, Charlie ran off.

"I thought that room was his office, Terence."

Terence cocked a brow. "Why would it matter?"

Nora twisted her hands together. "Do you remember Willy took Charlie's toothpaste cap Factory model back to the Factory with him?"

Terence nodded, the grin returning. "You mean after he stumbled across it taking your house apart, while the rest of us were eating dinner Wednesday night? Yeah, I remember. Charlie gave him the okay. What about it?"

"That model was the first thing we saw when he showed us our suite. It was on the coffee table— front and center— and having it there made us all feel like we were a part of the Factory already."

"Sounds like a nice gesture." Terence didn't see the problem, but he wondered whose idea that really was: Willy might like it when he heard it, but he probably wasn't the one to think of it.

"It _was_ a nice gesture; surprisingly so, considering how awkward things are overall." Nora pursed her lips. "The next morning, Willy stopped by— ostensibly to see we had all we needed— he didn't stay," her tone made it clear she thought he should have, and she bit her lip not to start judging again, "but I really think it was only to get the model back. He asked if he could take it, and said he was going to keep it in his office."

"That sounds nice, too," said Terence, now sure putting the model in the suite was someone else's idea. Doris came to mind.

"Charlie was thrilled. He ran directly over to the model, picked it up, and made a little ceremony of handing it over. Bowing he said: 'Giving you this, I give you this.' As a gift, you see."

Hearing Charlie's words, Terence did see, and he nodded. Charlie was a natural, and that probably pleased Willy more than the model. "I'll bet Willy was thrilled."

"He was all smiles, and bowing himself as he took it, he said: 'Taken with this, I'm taking this, and thank you.' And then they both laughed, and Willy twirled around and was off with it, practically dancing down the hallway. Come to think of it, Grandpa George tried to follow him. I don't know why, but he gave it up pretty quick." Nora was shaking her head sadly.

Terence found her reaction perplexing. "Perhaps I'm missing something, but personally, I don't find that a sad story. Why do you?"

Nora looked at Terence fiercely. "I told you. I thought that room was his office. He said he was keeping Charlie's Factory model in his office. When it wasn't there, I thought he was lying. I keep faulting him; coming to the wrong conclusions..." Angry with herself, Nora hunted for a way to share the blame, and found one. "But he's so standoff-ish, he makes it easy."

Annoyance shot through Terence like electricity. "You mean unlike other reclusive people you know, who warm right up to people who fault them, and draw the wrong conclusions about them?" he snapped. "And don't think Willy doesn't know you're doing it."

Nora remembered Willy's stare on Saturday morning, and didn't doubt Terence for a minute. She lowered her head contritely. Terence was right to snap. "I'm sorry about what I said back at the house. I take it all back."

Glad enough of the apology, the glib retraction Nora tacked on the end of it sent Terence's annoyance level skyrocketing. "Blah, blah, sticks and stones, blah, blah..." He broke off, shaking his head, trying to bring his irritation under control. "D' ya remember that rhyme? Words will never hurt me? Well, they say the pen is mightier than the sword, and that means words. Words, if you ask me, cut as deep—or deeper—as any sword. So if you want to avoid these cuts, you'd best not say these words you think you might like to take back later." He'd been speaking to her as a professor might speak to a recalcitrant student, but now Terence looked at her impassively, and his voice sharpened. "You know damn well you really can't take them back."

Nora's teeth were on her lower lip for the second time in less than five minutes. She did know; and she knew she didn't want to lose Terence as an ally: from his tone, it seemed she might. "I am sorry. What happened to Willy after this?" she asked quietly.

Terence turned away, his irritation smoldering, wondering if he was wasting his time. A closed mind is a closed mind, and he knew Willy would walk away from Nora without a care, or a backward glance. But Terence saw Charlie exploring happily, and Willy had hopes; Nora's question showed a willingness to keep trying, so making an effort, Terence turned back. "I'm sorry, too," he said, deliberately keeping his voice light. "I didn't mean to preach back there, but with this question you've just asked, now I will: that very night, Willy met his godparents, and he lived with them for years, across the street." Terence pivoted to show her, pointing. "Right. Over. There. That's where they lived, all along." Terence grinned. "As Willy would say: 'Isn't that neat?'"

Nora saw the grin, and felt relief. "Godparents?"

Terence held up both hands in a gesture of emptiness. "I don't know what else you'd call them. Willy needed parents, and God provided them. In my book, that makes them godparents."

Nora peered at the townhouse, down and across the street, with real curiosity. "Are they still there?"

"His godfather is, but his godmother died many years ago: before Cherry Street— long before Cherry Street. Stroke, then pneumonia. He didn't have her for long: about three years— four, if you count the stroke. Willy took care of her, until the end."

Nora's voice rose half an octave, following her eyebrows. "He did? Willy told you all this?"

"No. He didn't tell me any of it. He wouldn't. He told you, and you told me, and then I uncovered the details."

"Terence! Mum! Come look at this!" Charlie's call spilt the quiet. He was standing at the back of the lot: not in the center, but off to one side, and he was looking at something on the ground, in a spot that was once the premises' garden.

Terence broke off, and started toward Charlie. "We better look. I've been over this, but not carefully, and not lately."

Nora trotted to catch up. "How can I tell you a thing I didn't know?"

Terence laughed. "You told me what Martha said. That Willy and her grandfather knew each other well. Willy could have sent anyone. He sent her. He knew one of us would investigate that remark, and he didn't mind which one of us it was."

Nora was beginning to see: Willy communicated at first in clues, but she also knew Terence was being kind. If investigating that tidbit of information were up to her, Willy would still be waiting.

Terence read her thoughts. "I expect he knew it would be me. That sort of thing is right up my ally, and you had your hands full with your family." Suddenly, Terence halted. "Hey!" He looked at Nora, a few paces ahead of him now, as she stopped and turned, looking back. "It also gave me something to do— kept me in town, cooling my heels." Knitting his brow, Terence paused for a second, and then snapped his fingers. "And ya know what? So does heading up this house moving project." Smiling, he took up his walk again. "Egads, lass! I've been had!"

Nora was smiling now; the alternate explanation lightening the mood considerably. Keeping a friend in town was so much more appealing an excuse for handing over the project than an appalling act of cruelty, still, decades later, as raw as the day it happened. Terence smiled too, seeing Nora more relaxed. He'd said it, but he'd been there at the asking: he knew he hadn't been had.

As they approached, Charlie spread his arms and turned a circle. "Look at all these stones. Someone put them here."

Set flat in the earth, Terence missed seeing these stones when he came here in the Fall, trying to look up Dr. Wonka, because leaves covered them, and later, because he hadn't ventured in this far. It didn't matter: the snow that lay over everything would have hidden them. But last week was unseasonably warm, and the snow melted, and this week, only a skiff of snow had fallen to hide the ground. The winter sun, feeble though it was, was enough to melt the snow on top of the dark stones, leaving the white of the snow between them, and now, the stones stood out in stark relief.

Easy to see, it was hard to know what to make of them. Polished granite, with no other markings, not a one was the same as any other, though they shared similarities. Of varying lengths, some stones were many feet long, some no more than a foot; each had a degree of curve, some pronounced, and some, more than one; each had a smooth edge, and a scalloped edge. A few had scallops on both edges. As long as the stones were, none was very wide, and the effect was one of delicacy.

Terence walked back to where the inlay stopped, and saw the area covered was a large one: thirty or forty feet across. Nora and Charlie walked with him.

"The longest ones are farthest out," observed Charlie.

"None of them touch each other," said Nora, as she noticed something else. "Why are some clumped closely together, and some are almost by themselves?"

Terence had no answer. He was still looking. As random as the stones' placement seemed, the negative space of the snow told otherwise. The clumps of stones closer together mostly occurred near the design's center, and though not centered on the lot, there _was_ a center. Walking along the path of snow between the stones, Terence found himself guided there, and he followed the snow path until he stood at its end. Laid flat in the earth like the others, of the same polished granite, was an oblong stone, three feet long, with rounded corners.

Nora moved to join him, cutting across the stones to do it. Watching her made Terence think. "This reminds me of the labyrinth Willy showed me at Chartres Cathedral."

"Labyrinth?" asked Charlie.

Terence nodded. "Ya know the difference between a maze and a labyrinth, Charlie?"

Charlie shook his head, and Nora looked interested, too. "I didn't know either. Willy told me. In a maze there are wrong turns you can take, but a labyrinth has no wrong turns: it's only a path: a path you must follow, no matter how twisty and turn-y." Terence pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, as if what he was saying was making him cold. "Willy said it's a path where trying to take shortcuts will get you no where."

Nora shivered, too, as a puff of wind caught her hair, and stung her cheek. She was standing beside Terence, but she hadn't followed the path. "I guess I'm no where, then," she sighed. She tried to say it lightly, but to her ears it sounded forced. Shifting her weight, she turned back to see Charlie, who hadn't followed them back into the flat-stone garden. "It's not a very clear path; you can barely make it out."

Terence didn't disagree, and at a loss to make any sense of it, he held his peace.

* * *

"Aren't they back yet?"

Spinning on his heels at the peevish, out-of-the-blue question, Noah practically jumped out of his skin. Caught daydreaming as he unloaded crates, Noah hadn't expected Willy Wonka to sneak up behind him: but Willy had, appearing from wherever it was Willy went, disapprovingly holding his pocket watch in his hand. Quickly recovering from his surprise, Noah turned back to his work, noting the Oompa-Loompas nearby hadn't even broken stride. "Not yet," answered Noah mildly, doing his best not to laugh. As laid back as he was, high-strung people amused Noah no end, and Willy gave 'high-strung' new meaning.

Willy put his pocket watch away, and shifted his weight to his other foot. Noah wasn't concerned about a thing that should concern him. "Why aren't they back?" asked Willy politely, trying a new tack. "It's time to think about dinner."

"Search me," answered Noah, just as mildly as before. Noah had made another trip with the truck, without Willy, who stayed in the Factory, and Noah generously shared what he knew. "They left."

"Left?" Willy squeaked.

"Left," affirmed Noah, stopping his work to give Willy his full attention. "And don't worry about dinner," said Noah, with a slight smile, "we'll manage on our own."

Willy looked for the reproach in Noah's tone, or words—Noah was a paren, after all—but found none. Surprised by the lack, Willy, disarmed, hefted his walking stick. Noah's choice of words wasn't lost on him, and Willy admired their subtlety the more so, because they contained no ill will: he'd left the Buckets on their own since they'd arrived. Maybe that wasn't nice, or smart, but Willy didn't fool himself: he hadn't shown them anything, because he wasn't entirely sure he'd have them stay. So _why not_ have them do what they'd always done? _And why should that bother them? _Stay in bed for the grandparents, with Nora taking care of them— Willy still couldn't figure out why the grandparents hadn't gotten out of that bed, and taken advantage of the lovely bedrooms in that lovely suite, but they hadn't: they were in that bed this minute, in the middle of the suite's living room— hmm… and in the meantime, Noah did his toothpaste factory thing, and Charlie did his school thing, and he did his things, and it could go on like that, as far as he cared, until the house was in place. But maybe it couldn't. Maybe missing them, and having them help him, meant he'd made up his mind. Today had been fun; and different; and scary; but something worth repeating. Willy put the walking stick he'd been twisting in his hands back down by his side. "Noah."

Noah, having leisurely watched the cogs in Willy's head turn, waited for Willy to continue, but Willy just stood there, looking at him: expecting something from him. "Willy?" he ventured.

"When they get back, find me. I'll make dinner tonight. Thank you for helping today."

"Splendiferous," said Noah, as if this happened all the time, and was no big deal. "And I'm glad to help." As if to prove the point, he added, "They went to look at something, but as it's dark now, I expect they'll be back any time. How do I find you?"

Willy turned, and was walking away, waving a hand toward the Oompa-Loompas. "Find any of them, and tell them. They'll find me." Then he turned back, intense, and serious. "What do you mean, they went to look at something? What something?"

"I don't know, something about the house."

"Hmm." Willy twisted his cane again, but in a moment, he dropped it back to his side, and lifting his head, laughed at himself, for missing what Terence was up to. "Dear Terence. Sometimes he gets ahead of me." With a conspiratorial nod to Noah, Willy gleefully stabbed a determined finger into the air. "But I know just what to do to get them back."

* * *

Sucking his breath over his teeth in shock, the noise discordant in the quiet room, Dr. Wonka stabbed his bony finger at the page of newsprint, as if stabbing the name could stab the man. Terence James! That no good, weasel-faced, apple-cart-upsetting, useless piece of pond scum was back in town! Impossible! With dread, Dr. Wonka removed his finger from the page. Though smudged, the name was still there.

_Beautification Benefits Buckets_ read the blurb on the community page. _Dump does double take to become park. Mr. Terence James, spokesman for Mr. Willy Wonka, advises Mr. Wonka__ is __presenting the town with a new park, on what is now a wasteland at the edge of town. Work on the project has already begun. As part of the reclamation, the Bucket house, situated on the site, is moving to an, as yet, undisclosed location, but a Wonka truck, loaded with crates containing pieces of the Bucket house, returned to the Wonka Factory. Mr. Wonka was unavailable for comment, but the town commends his generosity in creating this new park for the town's enjoyment.  
_

Dr. Wonka dropped the newspaper, and threw himself back in his chair. Terence James and The Boy! Those two pieces of plaque were working together again! In his fury, Dr. Wonka stabbed his finger into the air, vowing as he did, to upset whatever apple cart The Boy, and that interloper, and these... these unknown Buckets were setting up; wincing only slightly at the pain in his side that stabbed him back.

* * *

_Thank you dionne dance, 07kattho, SNAPE IS SNAPE, and Kate2015: your reviews are the gift that keeps on giving, providing both encouragement and inspiration. __I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. __Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	4. Dentists

Charlie's finger stabbed at the night air. "Look," he cried excitedly, forgetting completely the mystery of the stones. "Willy's here!"

Terence and Nora turned in unison. It was too dark to make out the landscape of the lot by now, but the light of the street lamps cast a warm glow on the sidewalk. Bathed in that glow, was a tall, flowingly draped, slim man, made taller by a top hat. Standing easily, with most of his weight on his right leg, his left leg crossed in front, the man balanced, with bent knee, on his left toe and the tip of his walking stick, its top held at a jaunty angle away from his body by his extended right arm. His features were in shadow, but his silhouette was unmistakable.

Pell-mell, Charlie took off running, only to reach the sidewalk and slide abruptly, in an unceremonious tangle of flying arms and legs, to a confused halt. "You're not Willy," he gasped, breathing quickly from his exertion. Instinctively, Charlie took a step back, out of the stranger's reach.

"No, indeedy, I should say I'm not," laughed the tall man. "No, siree! I dare say you're not Willy, either, but here you are, tramping all about, on the lot he owns."

In the light, Charlie could see his mistake. This man, dressed like Willy, but not Willy, was old: maybe as old as Charlie's grandparents… maybe older: Charlie couldn't tell. The man had silver-gray hair—still surprisingly thick—his otherwise fashionable haircut a little on the long side maybe, as the ends curled above his collar. His eyes were bright blue, but pale: like the blue of the sky, near the horizon.

"I'm sorry…" Charlie began, flustered, wondering if he should tell this man Willy wouldn't mind he was walking around on the lot, he knew Willy personally, but Charlie didn't get past the thinking stage before the man laughed again, cutting in on his deliberations.

"I say, young man, did you notice I didn't ask you Willy who?"

Charlie thought that a silly question. There was only one Willy in this town: Willy Wonka. Everyone knew that.

The man straightened up, planting his walking stick front and center, both hands atop it, imposingly friendly. "That face you're making makes me think of my friend Terence, also a prolific face-maker. Do you know what 'prolific' means?" He didn't wait for Charlie to tell him, one way or the other. "Lots. It means lots— but not this lot." He chuckled, the happiness derived from the recent phone call from the Factory spilling over into what he was saying, and how he said it. "There _is_, I say, more than one person named Willy in this town, no matter what you think, even if ours _does _have the limelight."

"Ours?" Charlie tried to guess who this man who dressed like Willy might be. He couldn't be Willy's father. This man was too nice to ever do a thing to Willy like what Charlie had at his back.

The man didn't answer, but lifted his head, and raised his walking stick, in a gesture of small salute at the two figures approaching from out of the darkness. "Speak of the devil, and he appears! Terence!" The man stepped around Charlie, holding out his hand.

Terence moved quickly, clasping his hand in Dr. Grant's, shaking it warmly. "Dr. Grant, it's great to see you again."

"Tsk, tsk, dear chap. Don't make me start from scratch. I haven't the time. Sin, Sinclair, or Libby."

Terence ducked his head at the 'Libby', smiling, but jumped right back in, lest Dr. Grant—er, which one _was_ he going to use?—beat him to the punch on the introductions. "Mrs. Nora Bucket, may I present Willy's godfather, Dr. Sinclair Grant, DDS. Dr. Sinclair Grant, may I present Mrs. Nora Bucket, and Mr. Charlie Bucket, Willy's new friends, and apprentice. Charlie, this is Dr. Grant."

At the word 'friend', Nora bent her head, thinking Terence was being kind again: in her opinion, her recent behavior made that description overly generous.

"Very formally done, Terence," nodded Dr. Grant, "very formally done. Quite right. I'm very pleased to meet you both." Dr. Grant shook each of the Bucket hands in turn, holding Charlie's for a longer beat than necessary, studying Charlie as much as he dared, without being rude. He smiled to himself, noting Charlie studied him right back.

"Willy's godfather? You're a dentist, too? Like Willy's other father?" Charlie's amazement shone in his questions.

"Guilty, I'm afraid," answered Dr. Grant, with no sign of guilt at all. He carefully lowered himself till he was eye-to-eye with Charlie. "I say, young man," he stage whispered, "between _us_ two, I don't think dentistry was all the culprit between _those_ two." With the help of his walking stick, Dr. Grant rose carefully to his feet. "And now, with the formalities over, I've been dispatched by Willy to send you home. He says to tell you, you've dilly-dallied long enough for one day, and dinner is waiting."

Charlie, smiling, glad to get out of the cold, and back to the Factory, and Willy, and his family, clapped his hands at the news, but Nora was elsewhere, her head still bent. She was turning over in her mind the word 'home', and the phrase 'dinner is waiting' used by Willy Wonka, to refer to them: their home, in his home: the world's largest, and best-loved Chocolate Factory: their dinner, in that place, waiting… for them. Try as she might to pooh-pooh it, it was heady stuff.

"Send us home? No Great Glass Elevator coming to fetch us?" Terence and Dr. Grant had already exchanged knowing glances at Nora's dreamy look of preoccupation. Terence was only talking to fill the time until Nora regained her footing, and rejoined them in the present.

Dr. Grant took a tentative step toward his townhouse, to see if Nora would follow. Though still far away, on autopilot, she did. "He said to put you in a cab."

Terence and Dr. Grant exchanged glances again—Nora was practically floating—but this time, Terence caught Charlie's eye, and nodded toward Charlie's mother. Charlie, alerted, quickly abandoned his own reverie—wondering what dinner might be, and who was making it, and if Willy would be there—and catching on, gently slipped his fingers around his mother's hand.

Brought back to earth by the touch, and seeing the concerned look on her son's upturned face, Nora laughed lightly, squeezing Charlie's hand, before she pulled her own away, placing it on his shoulder, instead. Then, with her hand to steady her, Nora playfully leaned down, and planted a great, big, smacking wet kiss on the top of her son's head.

"Mum!" Charlie did his best to sound distressed, but his face was alight, and even as he rapidly brushed the spot with his hand, he was laughing with delight to see his mother so carefree.

Nora beamed at the men. "What are we doing?"

Dr. Grant resumed his measured walk. "We are going, I say, to my home, dear lady, to wait for the cab I am going to call, once we get there, that will take you back to The Chocolate Factory."

* * *

Willy stood in front of the double doors of the Bucket suite, his walking stick poised to rap on the righthand door. He was there to make sure the suite had everything he needed to make the dinner tonight, as promised. It would help him a lot, if he knew what he was going to make, but seeing what was on hand might inspire him.

Willy's arm might be poised to knock: but that's as far as he got. The imminent threat of the social land mines tripped him up. Charlie, and Noah, and definitely not Terence, his allies, were definitely not in there. Even Undying Gratitude, aka Nora, aka Mrs. Bucket, whose undying gratitude, replaced with simmering mistrust, had run out pretty quickly—but who he still thought he could count on: they had in common, after all, their mutual interest in Charlie's well-being—wasn't in there.

The walking stick was still poised, but Willy's arm was getting tired. Ahlia might be in there: she was his eyes and ears vis-à-vis Bucket activity, cleverly set up in the guise of liaison. Till Noah had helped today, Ahlia was the only Oompa-Loompa the new-to-the-scene Buckets had met. As an intern, Ahlia was easy to re-assign, and so he had, and as Eshle's daughter, her reports would be filtered by the right person. He trusted Eshle, his Head of Production, not to waste his time with details he didn't need to know, and he trusted Ahlia to report every detail. Ahlia was young, and headstrong, but on her toes.

If Ahlia wasn't in the suite, that meant only the grandparents were in there. Willy dropped the Nerd filled cane to his side. The Follower was grumpy, and would most likely snap at him. Georgina would know who he was, or she wouldn't, and if she didn't, then it didn't matter, and if she did, she would say something amusing, that he knew would make him smile. Smiling at the thought, Willy lifted his walking stick again, only to drop it back down a moment later.

The Stickler was in there, too, and she would probably point out some grievous social faux pas, like not knocking three times, or knocking three times, or knocking too loudly, or not knocking loudly enough, whichever one was wrong, the wrong one being whichever one he did, and who needed to walk into _that_? Willy almost turned away: The Dentist was notorious for moving the goal posts: these parens were likely the same.

Willy's shoulders slumped at the dread The Dentist crossing his mind conjured up, even as his pulse quickened, readying his body, in defense of the menace, for fight or flight. He felt his hand tighten painfully around his cane. To distract himself, and stay on course, Willy continued with the inventory.

Grandpa Joe was in there. Grandpa Joe was Charlie's favorite, and Willy liked him, too. He'd remembered snippets about Joe as he watched him on Charlie's private tour: Grandpa Joe was one of his better workers in the Factory. Grandpa Joe was an old familiar face, and not just because he was old: Joe worked at Cherry Street, as well. Familiar was good: squaring his shoulders, Willy made ready to knock again.

But Willy remembered something else, and the walking stick dropped back to his side for the third time. Grandpa Joe, and Cherry Street, and the Chocolate Birds. How could he forget? So simple, so awful, and not Joe's fault, his fault, but he'd steered clear of Joe after that. Polite, but distant: the way, come to think of it, Joe treated him, after that.

The Chocolate Birds were really Candy Eggs, and Willy, to this day, was very proud of them. The candy eggshell timed itself to melt all at once, with the timing delayed to make you think it wouldn't melt at all, and when you were practically positive it never would, it did—in a surprising flash—releasing a foamy filling that tickled the tongue, and tantalized the taste buds. Thinking about this lovely creation, the corners of Willy's mouth crinkled in a smile. Wonderful as all that was, it was wonderfully _not_ the best part. The _best_ part was when those sensational sensations subsided, because then, to your wonder, you noticed a tiny chocolate bird—sitting on your tongue—so detailed in its markings, if you told someone about it, you'd swear it was alive. The leftover foamy filling made the bird seem to move.

Willy remembered giving Joe one of the eggs, and all was well until the last, when Willy remembered, to his mortification, saying, 'now, open', to reveal the chocolate bird. The cringe had hit him a second after he'd said those words then, and remembering them now, in a second, the cringe hit him again. 'Now, open' were the words a dentist would say—what _The Dentist_ would say—and nothing Willy would _ever say,_ but he had: the words as unbidden as they were unwelcome. The implication that you could choose, in an unguarded, light-hearted moment, the mannerisms and expressions of the heartless thing you wanted with all your soul _not to be like in any way_, was staggeringly frightening, and back then, to cover his horror, he giggled: an awkward, forced, mindless sounding giggle, because that is the sound you make to make people think you are happy, even when you aren't. Joe must have thought him daft.

Willy avoided Joe after that embarrassment, but that solution wouldn't work anymore, because here Joe was again, and Willy couldn't very well go on avoiding him now. With a dejected sigh, Willy sank to the floor.

* * *

Charlie held the framed photo in his hand, as if it hid a secret. "This is Willy? His hair is so short."

After calling the cab company, to pass the time, Dr. Grant had bowed to Charlie's request for a tour of Willy's former home. He didn't see the harm: Charlie had already toured Willy's present home, and he knew Terence and Mrs. Bucket were not likely to object. Now they stood in Willy's old bedroom, furnished, Dr. Grant confided, as Willy wanted it.

The room's simplicity impressed Terence favorably: a single bed, with a night stand and lamp; a desk, a chair, another lamp; bookshelves above the desk, with assorted books: mostly science fiction, and classics, with a smattering of mysteries, and adventures. Otherwise, the room was bare. Willy had once complimented Terence on the Spartan austerity of his own room, above his shop. Then, Terence had thought the compliment ironic, more a gentle dig, but now, seeing this, he thought Willy might have genuinely meant it.

Reaching out, Dr. Grant gently took the photo from Charlie, replacing it on the plain desk, among the other photos there, in its exact former location, adjusting it carefully. There weren't many of them, and Dr. Grant didn't keep his photos of Willy where just anyone could see them. Over the years, he found the explanations too arduous, and the friends you made after they heard the explanations, were, more often than not, no friends at all. "It is. Willy wore his hair short for most of his life. I don't know when he changed it, but it was after he joined forces with the Oompa-Loompas."

Nora, without touching it, looked closely at the photo. "Who is he mad at?"

"Oh, you noticed that, indeedy, indeedy," answered Dr. Grant, dryly. In that particular photo, Willy looked positively sullen. It was one of the reasons, no doubt, Charlie wondered so at the image's identity. "That photo was taken on his birthday— a promise he made to his father, when he came to live with us. I don't think he was very happy about it. I kept a copy." Dr. Grant indicated the sparseness of the pictures on the desk. "As you can see, Willy wasn't too keen on photos."

Intrigued, Nora studied Willy's face intently. "Did he look this aggrieved every year?"

Dr. Grant shrugged his shoulders. "What every year? There's just this one."

Nora connected the dots. Terence had said four years with the Grants: only one birthday photo. "Willy was born on leap year?"

Dr. Grant nodded.

"Neat," said Charlie.

"No birthday this year," said Terence, with no surprise: he knew the fact from his earlier visit. It was part of Willy's phone number Terence didn't know the rest of: 229.

"He says it's why he looks so young," laughed Dr. Grant. "Come. I believe that's the doorbell. The cab is here."

Nora lingered as the others left the room, one photograph seeming to reach out to her as she passed, pulling her towards it. It was the photograph of a lithe, sharp-featured, intelligent looking woman, perhaps a few years older than Nora was now, boldly staring straight into the camera's lens—as if her look would make the photographer hers—and Nora found the forthrightness beckoning her, too. Thrown carelessly over her shoulder, making its length indeterminable, the salt of grey was making noticeable inroads in adding another color to the woman's straight, milk chocolate hair: but her mischievous, gray-green eyes were full of life, and the smile on her face lit up the photograph, and the room, defying time, and belying the truth she wasn't really present. Next to her stood young Willy, with his odd, to Nora, short hair, looking relaxed, and confident, his smile equally bright, and welcoming, his shoulders nestled comfortably in the crook of the woman's left arm. The tapering fingers of her hand trailed loosely down Willy's upper arm, and the fingers of Willy's own hand reached up, lightly covering hers. It was connection—a single moment, frozen in time—between two people who cared for each other deeply.

"That's Cynthia, my late wife."

Nora started, her involvement with the photograph so complete, she failed to realize Dr. Grant, alone, returned to the room, and was standing beside her.

Dr. Grant went unerringly to the photo that had Nora's attention, picking it up, holding it gently in his hands. "Don't trouble yourself," he said softly, to soothe her. "The two of them together were a tour de force. I know it." With his sleeve, he wiped dust that wasn't there off the glass that protected the photo. "They wanted me to put the camera on timer, and get in the shot with them. They tried every persuasion imaginable, but I was being stubborn, and wouldn't listen. By this time, they were trying every persuasion un-imaginable—hence these ridiculous smiles—and even though by then I thought I'd oblige, they looked so _them_, I took the picture, instead." With a sigh, Dr. Grant put the portrait back.

"They don't look ridiculous," murmured Nora, her hand barely beginning to reach toward the photograph. "They look…"

Dr. Grant was already on his way out. "I say, I'm sorry," he said, gruffness hiding the catch in his voice. "Did you say something? It's time to go. The cab is here."

"No. It's nothing." Dropping her arm to her side, Nora cleared her throat as she followed after him. "I only said: Willy's not wearing gloves."

* * *

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. __Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._

_Thank you dionne dance, Kate2015, and 07kattho: your reviews do more than delight._


	5. Dinners

_Warning: A__buse often masquerades as discipline, and mild violence is violence, and isn't _that_ an oxymoron! In this chapter, you'll find both._

* * *

Bother this dinner… and what good was sitting on the floor doing him? Willy climbed grudgingly back to his feet, assessing his predicament. These Buckets probably expected more than dinner. They probably expected sitting at the table, and using utensils. No stranger to both, Willy wasn't fond of either. Nibbling on this and that, at odd moments, as the mood struck him, was far preferable to sit-down meals, and meshed _so _much more neatly with his style of working. As for utensils, bah utensils; he'd given them up in favor of fingers decades ago, and for very good reason: when you graze all day, who _has _utensils, and utensils, unlike fingers, are inflexible, making them beastly hard to maneuver around… around… Wire. Wires.

Willy felt like a wire himself: stretched, and taut. Bother these Buckets, and bother these thoughts. The Dentist trained him well to stand and serve at meals, and it suited Willy to do it. Utensils and wires don't mix. The alternative, coaxing utensils to thread wires, meant eating slowly, and clumsily, making him seem uncoördinated, and oafish, at the table of a man whose eyes laughed at your every move: a man who savored as enchanting entertainment the spectacle his cumbersome, creepy, confounded contraption created. It was positively dreary, deary, and cold comfort knowing, if not for The Dentist's hideous handiwork making it so, you were none of those things.

At least The Dentist's heart-felt belief that children be seen, and not heard—and scarcely seen, at that—_was_ small comfort, and it spared Willy the agony of suffering this torturous eating ordeal in front of guests. On the rare occasions of dinner parties—or gatherings of any kind—The Dentist would trot Willy out, tight-lipped and mute, an expected display for the assembled company's amusement, their vapid observations boring The Dentist, while Willy dutifully kept his observations to himself. "Oh! Look how little Willy has grown," they'd coo, a few attempting to tweak his cheek, or pat him on the head, as if he were a well-trained pet.

Assiduously polite, and assiduously keeping out of their reach, Willy kept his face a mask, inwardly groaning. Did they mean to say he had grown not much? Or that little before, he had grown a lot? If the last, were they thick? What else did these ridiculous adults expect? Did they honestly dream, from visit to visit, he would shrink? Then Willy remembered Mike Teavee, and promptly snorted a giggle into the hand he hastily brought to his lips. There was little chance of _that_ fate befalling _him_ back then: he hadn't invented the machine yet.

Thinking about it, Willy flipped the hand so lately at his mouth dismissively into the air: it hardly mattered what the fools meant back then. On nearly every one of those occasions, he was, without further ado, sent packing off to his room. Remembering, Willy's head tilted dreamily back, and he exhaled contentedly, his mouth relaxing into the tiniest of smiles. Willy adored that: the packing off to his room part. His room was his sanctuary; lovely, and sweet: a sweet space of blessed escape. In later years, the sound of the doorbell alone was enough to send him shooting up the stairs—in the unlikely case he wasn't in his room already—with nary a peep of compliant from The Dentist. As un-amusing as Willy could make himself, even with threatened consequences to suffer later, Willy's not being required to amuse those he found un-amusing was a point they learned to agreed on.

His hand drifted to his face, and nothing prevented Willy from touching his cheek. There were no wires now; just wiry memories, snaring him in this nasty past: long gone, long over, long finished. Why didn't it stay that way? These Buckets: they weren't The Dentist, but they stirred up these thoughts, blissfully unthought for years. Willy clenched a fist, only to unclench it a moment later. Resisting was futile; these thoughts, they wouldn't go away, and sweetly or otherwise, there was no escaping them: if the future mattered, these thoughts needed thought now, because… because… Because they were roadblocks, getting in his way. That's what they were!

Putting his back against the wall, beside the Buckets' suite door, and liking the clichéd metaphor immensely—his back _was _against the wall—Willy surrendered to it all, sliding back down to the floor. Sitting cross-legged, placing his walking stick carefully beside him, his top hat next to that, Willy crossed his arms against his chest, and hunched forward. The Dentist upset, but Thea soothed: he'd think about Thea. Thea, who never said come to the table, but who never touched a morsel, until he did. Thea, who never asked him to eat, but who ate with such enjoyment, he followed her lead. It was so easy without the…

Unasked for, The Dentist was back, his voice silvery, like moonbeams, crooning softly: "When you're good, Boy, I'll take those braces off." It was a ritual Willy stood impassively for, his face a stone. The Dentist said the same words to him, on every night there was no one else to hear them. "That wasn't today, Boy, was it?" And he'd beckon, and Willy would take the indicated dish off the sideboard, and step forward, and The Dentist would serve himself another helping. "Good boy," he'd say, and then he'd laugh.

Willy's eyes half closed. Moonbeams were deceptive: they shone, but what you saw in their less than illuminating light was often not what you thought you saw, and remembering something murky, Willy's eyes lost focus, and in his warm Factory, he began to shiver: the cold of the bare floorboards of his bedroom, seeping into his body, as it had in the wee hours of an October night, long ago. The moonbeams on that cold, misty night revealed to him a dream: a dream of his father, in the garden—where his father _never_ went—calling for his mother—in the garden she loved—searching for her, but not finding her; calling for her, but hearing only the wind, rustling amidst the rotting leaves, scattered by his father's feet.

So real the dream seemed, in the morning, Willy imagined his toes still ached from watching on tip-toe at his window sill, and throwing back the covers, he pelted down the stairs, never so happy in his short—four, almost five-year old—life, to wake up. He would find his Mum's arms, and tell her about the awful dream, and she'd hug him tight, and laugh, and kiss the top of his head, and make it all better. This, as he careened down the stairs, was his dream, but as surely as had his dream of last night, this dream, too, abruptly ended, and the nightmare began. It started with the changing of his name.

"She left you, Boy." The growl of his father's voice stopped Willy at the bottom of the stairs, with the grip of his father's fingers, buried in the fabric of his collar, adding to the persuasion. Struggling, Willy tried to break free, to find his Mum. His father's words made no sense, and hurt, in a different way, as much as the hand on his neck. His father's fooling was no fun, but it never was. Willy knew his Mum wouldn't leave! Ever! Not without him!

Incredulous disbelief showed starkly on Willy's face, and in response, his father's fingers tightened, his hand twisting, his unrelenting grasp on Willy's collar beginning to choke him.

"Don't believe me, boy?" his father barked. "Let me show you." Like lightening spent, the bark disappeared, replaced by saccharin sweetness, but the grip on his collar was tighter than ever, and sharp, prodding knuckles, digging into Willy's back, propelled him along the hall, and down the stairs to the basement; to the corner where the seldom used articles were neatly stacked. "See," his father shoved him roughly toward the disarranged pile, "for yourself!" The saccharin voice singed itself with suppressed rage. "All her suitcases— gone!"

Giving Willy no time to look, his grip as strong as ever, Willy's father propelled him back up the basement stairs, and up the flight of stairs Willy had so recently run down: propelled him into his mother's room— her room: the room she didn't share with his father, and hadn't, for as long as Willy could remember. The closet door was ajar, the closet bare. Empty hangers and other odds and ends were strewn about, extreme haste conveyed by their helter-skelter locations. His father dragged him to her dresser, where Willy saw the same: the drawers all empty, and left in disarray. "She didn't take you with her, Boy," his father sneered, finally letting him go, shoving him away, forcefully enough to slam him into his mother's dresser. "Not even in a photograph!"

Willy hit the dresser and whirled, breathing hard, facing his father, as his father threw a scrap of paper at him. It fluttered to the floor, and through misting eyes, still gulping for air, Willy picked it up. It was a picture of him, with his mother, but marred by a jagged diagonal tear, his image intact, his mother's ripped out. Only her hand remained, on his shoulder, her fingers trailing down his upper arm. With tears in his eyes, Willy held it tightly, distraught with disbelief.

"She tore you out of her life, Boy, because she didn't love you— she _never_ loved you," jeered his father. "But I do, Boy. _I _haven't left you. Now stop your sniveling— it's demeaning."

Willy heard the words, not believing them. He looked up. His father's eyes were like flint, cutting and cruel.

"I'm all you have now, Boy, and I don't tolerate sniveling."

To escape the stab of his father's eyes, Willy hung his head, clutching the scrap of paper that was the only anchor he had with the way of life he'd lost this morning.

"Listen to me, Boy. I'm telling you she didn't love you, and I know what I'm talking about," his father spat, disgusted by his son's emotion. "In fact, it's you who've made her do this. You— with your frivolous, foolish, silly ways. It's not too late for you, Boy, I can put a stop to those now— and you'll thank me for that, I promise you. But never forget, Boy, what's happened here is your fault, and you'll jolly well spend the rest of your life making it up to me, for the inconvenience."

Willy stared at the grain in the floorboard, following its pattern, struggling to understand the accusations being heaped upon him. His father was blaming him. Saying his mother didn't love _him. _His heart screamed out in denial: _not true, not_ _TRUE,_ NOT TRUE! If anyone, it was his father she didn't love. His father, who disapproved of—his mother never said it, but they both knew it—of her, of him, of life, of joy, of _everything. _His father made his mother leave, and Willy would never believe otherwise. Tears tracked freely down his cheeks, but Willy refused to take the blame, and through their blur, he rushed at his father, like a terrier, his small fists pummeling his father's legs. "She left you," he screamed. "She left you, she left you, she left you! Not me! She left you!"

His father's retaliatory blow to Willy's cheek and jaw was as swift as it was dispassionately accurate. The force of it snapped Willy's head back, and the sting of his cheek brought fresh tears to his eyes. Willy raised his arm in self-defense, but his father, anticipating the move, seized Willy's forearm, bringing his face in so close, the breath he exhaled was warm on Willy's face.

"There'll be none of that, Boy," his father said lowly, his measured voice dripping with menace, but melodious. "I don't tolerate displays— or raised voices— or silliness. Do you understand? It's very important you do: as of this minute." His father placed his other hand beside the first, on Willy's arm. "If you raise your voice again, I'll wash your mouth out with lye, Boy. Do you know what lye is?" As he said the words, his hands simultaneously twisted roughly in opposite directions on Willy's forearm. "It's a chemical, Boy. A chemical that will burn your tongue so much worse than that little rub burned your arm. If I use enough of it, it will burn your screaming little tongue right out of your skull. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"

His father's flinty eyes burned as they bored into him. "Have I made myself clear, Boy?"

The searing, burning sensation was still shooting through his arm, but Willy defiantly choked back his cry of pain, before it achieved expression. His father dropped his arm, and Willy snatched it to his body, rubbing the hurt.

"I see I have. Good boy." Turning his back on Willy, satisfied with his morning's work, his father left the room. "Don't come downstairs, Boy, until you can behave."

Rubbing his arm, Willy blinked back salty tears, watching the disappearing back of his father dissolve into… Ahlia. Ah. Ahlia. Willy breathed out, ever so gently; and breathed in, ever so gently. How 'bout that? Time travel. Willy repeated the breathing exercise. This solved the mystery of where Ahlia was: not, after all, in the suite. Willy stopped rubbing his arm—there was no real pain—slowing lowering it to his lap.

Ahlia was sitting facing him, on the floor, mirroring the way he was sitting. She looked quite comfortable, as if she had been there for hours. He hoped not. She was looking tenderly into his eyes, which made him feel horribly uncomfortable, as, when he was himself, that was something he made sure it was nearly impossible for anyone to do. How long had he not been himself? Lowering his head, Willy began a mental inventory of his person, to find the cause for this disturbing tenderness, and reaching for his hat, he wondered what on earth he was going to say to get himself out of _this_ particularly sticky wicket.

Ahlia lowered her head when Willy lowered his. Eshle, her father, had told her about these episodes Willy had—not often, but sometimes—because she worked with Willy, in The Inventing Room, and she should know—but she had never seen one, and until now, she hadn't believed her father. Willy was so self-assured, and such a genius, and so wonderful, and so happy, how could there be anything that could make him sad? It was even more unbelievable that whatever it was could make Willy so sad it swallowed him up: but today she learned she was wrong: there was something, and it could.

Willy reached for his top hat, and put it on, and Ahlia wondered when he would notice the tears. He blinked, and his wet lashes pushed one last tear down his cheek. He noticed. She wondered if he would take out the handkerchief with her initial on it. He had taken it out of his pocket once, by mistake, she guessed, because he had thrust it back before anyone could see it, but she already had: she'd seen the 'A', in the corner, embroidered in a soft lavender color, and imagined the 'A' was for her name. She knew it wasn't, and the handkerchief Willy took out now wasn't it: this one had the expected intertwining 'W's embroidered in the corner, in bold purple.

Her father had told her to do nothing if this ever happened, Willy would handle it in his own way, and that was best, but having wiped away his tears, to Ahlia, Willy seemed uncertain still. Maybe he worried her youth prevented her understanding, and thought he frightened her: but that wasn't true, and she didn't want him to feel that way. She thought about how happy he usually was—laughing his favorite way of expressing himself—and the words of a song popped into her head. Her people adored songs, even songs they didn't make up themselves, and this was one of those. Ahlia sang to him softly: _"Laughing and crying, you know it's the same release."_

His eyes closed, Willy cocked his head in pleasant surprise, Ahlia's soft, clear voice scattering his confusion, and solving his problem: Ahlia had solved it for him. Matching her intonation, but not her voice, he sang softly back to her in his:_ "I told you when I met you I was crazy, …keeping the sadness at bay." _Willy smiled, his eyes open now, and he spoke lightly. "But not tonight, eh?"

Ahlia nodded. His voice was high, and clear, and deeply expressive.

"That was a good choice," Willy said, getting to his feet, and dusting himself off, the song still floating around in his head: _'I'm just living on nerves and feelings…'_

Ahlia got up, too.

'_and coming to people's parties…' _The song had a mind of its own, and the lyric: '_you seem to have a broader sensibility' _ inspired him. "Would you like to help me, Ahlia?" Willy asked. "I signed up to do dinner, for the Buckets, because I over-estimate myself sometimes. Will you be my hostess?"

Ahlia nodded eagerly.

"Good. I'm off to have Nôtla whip something up. I'm not ready to take off the gloves."

Ahlia had no idea what Willy was talking about. Did he mean that? She had _never_ seen Willy without gloves, and no one she knew had, either.

"We're waiting for Charlie and Nora to get back. When they do, they'll want to freshen up. We can have spaghetti, and it can cook while they're doing that." Spaghetti was a good idea, and utensil using with spaghetti was fun: all that twirling. Willy waved a hand at the doors to the Buckets' suite. "Can you tell them the plan? And keep them entertained? Noah will be here soon. I'll arrive with the food."

Ahlia nodded her head again. Anything Nôtla, the Oompa-Loompas' distinguished chef, made, would almost rival anything Willy made, and Ahlia loved spaghetti, almost as much as she loved cacao beans. Clasping her hands together delightedly, she loved more than either the prospect of having dinner with Willy, and his new friends. She couldn't believe her luck at the invitation, and 'hostess' put stars in her eyes.

The crisis effectively sorted, with a bouncy sashay to his step, Willy walked away, but he twirled back, grinning. "I doubt Terence will be with them, but if he is, he can use the Voyager suite." Willy snorted with laughter: exploring, and a reference to space, all rolled into one. Keen.

Ahlia, not caring why Willy was laughing, but thrilled he was, gave him a thumbs up, and skipped to the door, her face a study in happiness, making ready to knock before she pushed the recessed, Oompa-Loompa height button that would release the catch in the knob high above her head.

Willy shook his head, gratefully watching Ahlia do so blithely what he found so paralyzing. He knew he had nothing on the Oompa-Loompas vis-à-vis suffering: their homeland made anything that happened to him, in his life, seem like a cake-walk. Willy hadn't intended to involve Ahlia in his comparatively trivial problems, but inadvertently, he had. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he turned away.

Ahlia heard the muffled 'I'm sorry' without understanding, and happy only a moment before, now she watched the retreating figure sadly. Sadly, because the words meant Willy didn't know—and he should—that in her book, he'd never done anything he need feel sorry about.

* * *

Nora, waving at the cab as it turned out of sight at the corner, wondered to herself at the speed with which things had already changed. Charlie, eager to get back to The Chocolate Factory, hadn't looked back, and Terence, wondering if he had done the right thing by not objecting to Nora's request to stay, was lost in musings of his own.

Seeing neither of her departing companions wave back, Nora listlessly dropped her hand to her side, as if she believed in some way it had betrayed her: it should have held the power to turn their heads, and it hadn't. Disappointed, flexing her fingers, Nora turned her hand over and back, as if she might find some traitorous defect: but if there was a flaw, she couldn't find it.

Saying nothing, Dr. Grant's keen eyes watched her movements carefully, and aware of his interest, Nora smiled wanly. "Looks like I'm relegated to the sidelines," she said, flatly.

"I'd say, dear lady, in this instance, you're relegated to the sidewalk. Shall we go back in? I don't think it will get any warmer out here till morning, at the earliest, and maybe not even then." Dr. Grant started up the steps to his door, Nora following. "They grow up, you know— I know you do, but the knowing doesn't help with the shock— and I do say, it is a shock, yes, indeed, a shock— the first time something big happens, isn't it? New horizons, and whatnot— they move on."

Nora nodded behind him. "I never thought the horizon would turn overnight into a chocolate factory," she muttered.

Reaching the living room, Dr. Grant let the remark pass. The Chocolate Factory was irrelevant: he never thought overnight he'd acquire a son, but thanks to Cyn, whose horizons were always more fanciful than his, he had. The thought brought him inner warmth a fire never could.

"I don't know what I can offer you, but if you'd like to know more about Cyn, as you've asked, I can rustle something up while we talk," said Dr. Grant, moving into the kitchen. He relished the chance to talk about his beloved Cynthia, the way a battery relishes being recharged. "I say, perhaps some tea, and some toast, with jam. That's easy."

Nora, following, was loath to impose on Dr. Grant without contributing something, and as it _was_ dinnertime, and neither of them had eaten, she stepped briskly up to the cabinets, in the manner of Willy Wonka, and began poking through them. Nora hoped Dr. Grant didn't mind, but if he lived with Willy, this behavior should be old hat for him. She laughed to herself at her little joke. "Excuse me," she said, "but if you'll be kind enough to tell me more about your wife, I'll be kind enough to whip up some dinner for us." In one of the cabinets she struck gold. "Oh, look! You have spaghetti. How does that sound?"

Dr. Grant nodded his pleasure, and together, they prepared the meal.

* * *

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. This likewise applies to the quoted song, "People's Parties" by Joni Mitchell. __Thanks for reading, and pass along what you think._

_dionne dance: Yup— that dentist! And then there's this dentist. You'll recognize the menu, and thanks for re-posting your review when it didn't show up. Kate2015: The togs: imitation—the sincerest form of flattery, or maybe Dr. Grant, indulging his sense of humor. Thanks for reviewing._


	6. Revelations

The cheery crackling of the fire in the grate was long gone, and now there was barely a lick of flame to stroke the burning logs. The embers that remained glowed red, warming the two people sitting comfortably in the armchairs snuggly pulled up close, taking full advantage of the radiating heat. With a gentle, swooshing sigh, a log surrendered to its irresistible fate, and broke in two; its collapse spraying a firework of sparks, fanning up the chimney.

The dancing light and soft sound stirred Nora from her trance: like the fire, by this time, she and Dr. Grant were quiet; contemplating their earlier conversation, in companionable silence. Glancing at the clock on the mantlepiece, it alarmed her to read six minutes shy of 11 o'clock. "My word," Nora gasped, dismayed. "Look at the time! It's frightfully late. I should never have kept you this long. I didn't mean to."

Dr. Grant languidly raised a depreciating hand. "I wouldn't care if you had, dear lady. I've enjoyed this evening immensely, and just between you and me, at my age, I say, sleep is a friend you don't spend as much time with as you'd like." He turned to look at the clock himself. "Ah. It is late, if you have plans for tomorrow involving anything other than sleeping in. I'll call a cab at once, and send you on your way."

Nora nodded. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Dr. Grant looked tired, and he rose from his chair as though through quicksand.

"I didn't mean to stir up sad memories," she offered. Dr. Grant, having made the call, remained standing by the telephone table, and Nora rose to join him.

"You didn't. They are happy memories of Cyn, every one. What's sad is that they _are_ memories." He turned away slightly. "I say."

Nora put a hand on his arm, and smiling faintly, he placed his cool hand on top of her warm one, patting it gently. The gesture's connection screamed a question—he must be lonely—and Nora, surprising herself with her own nosiness, earnestly blurted out: "Why don't you live in the Factory?"

The effect of the query on Dr. Grant was not what she expected. He broke instantly into a burst of giggles, reminiscent of Willy, that quickly turned to peals of laughter. "Oh, my dear lady," he breathed, between fits. "My dear, dear, lady! You are too funny!"

Nora's face was the picture of profound confusion.

"I am very happy where I am, and Willy sees to it that I lack for nothing." Dr. Grant made a sweeping gesture with his arm, to include his very comfortable surroundings in his statement. "I doubt I'd ever get to the bottom of Willy's generosity, so I don't try. I'm very happy with what I have, and I'm also very happy with my sanity. It's one of my most treasured possessions— a possession I can boast I _have_ living here, and a possession, I say, I would shortly lose, living in Willy's Factory."

Dr. Grant seated himself on the arm of one of the chairs, and studied Nora appraisingly. "I say, dear lady— isn't that why you stayed this evening? To see if I can help you answer the question whether _you_ can keep _your_ sanity, if you live there?"

Nora flushed a bright crimson, wondering if that's why she _was_ here tonight. She hadn't, when Terence and Charlie left, expected to stay, but some force or other hadn't let her leave. What was it?

Dr. Grant softened the edge that had crept into his voice when he saw the blush. "I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome: you're very welcome, and I've enjoyed our chat, but Willy and I are very different people. We had Cyn in common, and each of us prizing her is enough to make us prize each other— but my kind of crazy is conventionality, and Willy's kind of crazy is creativity." Dr. Grant folded his hands in his lap. "The rub, I say, is my kind of crazy, cramps his kind of crazy, and we're both the losers for it— don't frown, it's no one's fault— it's perfectly alright to like different things— but after all he and I have been through, I hold him in too high a regard, to put myself in a position where I make life more difficult for him."

Nora turned the words over in her mind, shying, to no avail, away from the glaring comparison. Misgivings born of conventionality… cramping Willy's style… in his own Factory. Her family, impeding his creative abilities… The thoughts were terrifying, but more terrifying was Willy Wonka, inviting them in, proving he was willing to take the risk. Now Nora could understand why Willy was proceeding slowly: the stakes were high.

Nora shivered at the ramifications of being responsible for hamstringing a great talent, but it was Cyn who popped into her mind. She had listened, all night, to stories of an imaginative, creative, vibrant personality, and yet… "Why did Cyn become a lawyer? Isn't that a rather defined profession, for such a free spirit?"

"Ah," purred Dr. Grant, ever so slightly nodding his head. "In that you have asked an astute question, my dear lady— very astute. Why indeed? Cyn could have been an artist, or a designer, or an author, or a poet, or a— well— anything she liked, but Cyn also wanted the comforts life had to offer, and creative pursuits, for nearly everyone pursuing them, are notoriously low paying. I think she thought with the financial angle handled, she'd have time left over to devote to the creative endeavors."

"I see."

"I don't think you do, Nora."

Nora's head snapped up, as she realized Dr. Grant had used her given name, for the first time all evening.

Dr. Grant continued in a low voice. "There's never enough time for it all. Cyn made the thing she wanted second, the thing she did first, only to find there was no time left for the things she wanted first. Fear of what the future would, or wouldn't bring her, kept her from following her heart, and I think Cynthia regretted her decision. Not all the time, mind you— her life was a full one— but in the background— a little niggle, every now and again, of opportunities missed, for the sake of playing it safe."

Dr. Grant looked wistfully into the past, but cheerfully returned. "_I _didn't regret her decision, mind you— not one itty bit. I applaud it as the sensible course of action, and so does most of the rest of society. Had she followed her heart, right off the bat, I'd never have met Cyn, and her _clients_ didn't regret it, either. Cyn used her creativity to wangle a way out of any difficulty, but _she_ regretted it. Right up, that is, until the day Cyn brought Willy into our lives— then everything she'd done made perfect sense, and she was glad for all of it. She did her best to pass what she knew on to Willy, but especially, I say, making sure Willy followed _his _heart, straight away, and gosh darn the consequences!" Dr. Grant looked ruefully at Nora. "As Willy would say."

"And gosh darn them he did."

Dr. Grant nodded. "He did. Despite all the grief. Thea would be proud."

Nora cocked her head.

Dr. Grant laughed. "Don't tell me I didn't mention that. I called her 'Cyn'. Willy called her 'Thea'. 'CynThea'. Simple, but Cyn loved it."

Nora laughed. It was so Willy. There was a knock on the door, and the sound made Nora jump. The cab was here, the visit about to end, but the names involving Cyn made her suddenly badly want to know one last thing. As Dr. Grant crossed to the door, her words tripping over themselves, Nora breathlessly nearly shouted her last question. _"Why does he call you Libby?"_

His hand on the doorknob, Dr. Grant's breath caught in his throat, expelling itself in a low hiss. Nora's desperation to know carried in her voice, and he turned to her, his face inscrutable, before, without a word, he turned back to the door. He took a minute to think, his hand still on the knob. Despite the misgivings she'd expressed tonight—for those not on his wavelength, Willy took some getting used to—his impression of Charlie's mother was a good one; considering how important Charlie was to Willy, and his mother to Charlie, anything that helped Nora, helped Willy. Nora should know.

His decision made, Dr. Grant opened the door, and the cabbie on the doorstep tipped his hat. Dr. Grant spoke quietly, and the cabbie left.

"He'll wait in his cab," Dr. Grant explained. "I'll just be a minute." He left the room, and shortly came back holding photographs. "Dr. Wonka didn't make any trouble for us after he packed up his house, and moved without Willy. These photos are a big part of the reason. Cyn took them before I took the braces off, with that in mind."

Nora took the photos handed her, and after seeing the first two, sank into the nearest chair. She looked through the rest silently. "How did he sleep?" she whispered. "How did he eat? He can't even close his mouth." Pale, she looked up. "How long were they on?"

"For years, but in that monstrosity, _ten_ _minutes_ would be too long. Willy called me 'The Liberator' because I took those braces off, but over the years he's shortened it to 'Libby'." Dr. Grant sagged a little, and his voice became wistful. "He doesn't know I know, but I wish he did. Sinclair is so formal sounding, and I say, with all we've been through, getting on as I am, I'd rather be Libby."

Nora handed the photos back. Her voice was a hoarse croak, her eyes unwilling to focus on anything specific, lest they see those pictures again. "Thanks for showing me. I had no idea. What kind of father would do that to their son? What kind of mother would let him?"

Dr. Grant took the photos back, and held them thoughtfully, thinking back, before looking at Nora sadly. "That dear lady, you'll have to ask him. In all the time I've known him— and this goes for Cyn, too— she'd have told me— Willy never mentioned anything about his natural mother, or what happened to her."

"Nothing? Ever? What do you mean, what happened to her?"

"Not one word: his mother was out of the picture long before we moved here. Willy never even told us her name. Sometimes I wonder if he knows it."

"Gone? What do the neighbors say? Someone must have seen her leave."

"The neighbors say everything under the sun, the moon, and the stars," said Dr. Grant, disparagingly, with a flip of his wrist. "Take your pick— that she had an affaire, and ran off— that she _didn't_ have an affaire, but ran away all the same— that to avoid scandal, they spirited her away; secretly, in the middle of the night, and took her to an asylum for the hopelessly insane, where she languishes still."

Dr. Grant's accompanying smile had a rictus quality to it, that made Nora think Dr. Grant wouldn't mind seeing Dr. Wonka languishing in an asylum for the hopelessly insane.

"I say, Dr. Wonka doesn't say it outright, but that last version is the one he prefers. The braces made Willy odd enough, but that story— why, yes, indeedy, _that_ story— made people wonder if there wasn't something inherently wrong with Willy, too— I say, you know— crazy mother, crazy son." Dr. Grant tried to keep his voice light on this odious subject, but his hands shook with inward rage, his eyes glittering, and he had no choice but to pause until the visceral wave of emotion passed.

Nora waited, feeling numb.

"That's the story Dr. Wonka tacitly goes along with, I think because it so neatly explained Mrs. Wonka's absence, and made people sufficiently leery of odd little Willy, to steer well clear of him."

"Tacitly? Mrs. Wonka?"

Dr. Grant nodded. "Rumor has it, Dr. Wonka always referred to her as Mrs. Wonka, and she called him Dr. Wonka— that's not so strange— it's an old-fashioned custom, quite common in its day and age." There was no need to mention that that day and age, wasn't _this_ day and age, and that _did_ make it strange, or that the rest of the rumor was that Willy's mother's name was Mina. Deciding to respect Willy's privacy in a matter Willy never mentioned himself, Dr. Grant kept that detail to himself: for all he knew, the rumor was wrong. "Dr. Wonka never confirms, or denies, any of the stories, but he nods sympathetically when he hears that one."

A silence fell like a pall, and neither looked at the other.

Drained, and sickened by the aftermath of the rage that had swept through him, Dr. Grant brought the evening to a close: the cabbie was waiting. "I say, you'd best get home." Summoning his manners, he gestured graciously toward the door. "Forgive me if I've upset you, but Dr. Wonka's treatment of Willy is upsetting."

Nora rose on unsteady feet: upsetting was an understatement, and Dr. Grant was as pale as she felt. She smiled wanly, not wanting to end the evening on such a sour note. "May I call you Libby?"

Dr. Grant smiled at the unexpected question: it was one he could happily answer. "Of course, dear lady." Offering her his arm, Nora latched on to it, as if, lost in the wilderness of a world she didn't want to imagine, she had found a path to guide her. Together, they made their way down the steps to the waiting cab.

Before Nora got in, Dr. Grant palmed her enough money for the fare. Having none herself, she took it, but questioningly.

"I doubt, as often as Willy has need of a cab, he has an account with this company, and that fine point of payment has probably escaped him. I say," Dr. Grant chuckled faintly, "as Willy said the fare is on him, I'll be his proxy."

Nora smiled bravely in return, the things uncovered by her throw away question about the nickname 'Libby', still making her sick.

Only a minute to go. Nora was safely in the cab, but seeing the pinched pallor around her mouth and eyes, Dr. Grant, before closing the door, hesitated for the slightest second more. "I say, Nora, those were grim times— but keep in mind— moving his house wasn't the worst thing Dr. Wonka did to Willy. It was one of the nicest."

* * *

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and if it pleases you, please review._

_dionne dance, Celeste K. Raven, and 07kattho: your reviews are a joy. Thank you._


	7. Return

Nora slid smoothly across the leather of the cab's worn bench seat, until the sagging of its decrepit springs decided for her where she should sit. Oblivious to the dilapidation, Nora settled herself for the ride, her mind ping-ponging between imagining Willy, and then Charlie, in the nightmarish situations she'd heard and seen this evening. She found her mind wouldn't imagine those things for Charlie, making her feel all the worse for Willy.

"Where to, lady?" the cabbie asked dejectedly, sorely disheartened to find he'd failed to drop the meter's arm when he started waiting. His calloused hand reached for it now, dropping it wearily.

The normalcy of the cabbie's routine question and tired voice pierced Nora's reverie. Mechanically, she leant forward and told him; but her voice sounded strange to her, and having answered, she leant back, willingly retreating into an icy numbness, imagining nothing at all.

The driver grunted an acknowledgement Nora didn't hear, and the cab pulled away from the curb.

* * *

"You sure this is where ya wanna go, lady?"

Her driver's incredulous voice roused Nora from her daze. The rumble of the cab's engine, and the vapor of the exhaust filled her senses. Beyond the rising vapor, between the puffs that obscured everything else, Nora made out the lately modified outline of her old house, and the broken cabbages, trampled underfoot, in the garden she'd so lovingly tended.

Lovingly. Quick tears stung the backs of her eyes, as the pity and pain smoldering within her surged to the surface and found a focus: her cabbages—her dear, sweet, innocent cabbages. Nora's thin hand reached meaninglessly toward them and then dropped sadly to her lap. Someone should have saved them: gathered them up, for some useful purpose. Like brave little soldiers, her hardy, uncomplaining cabbages had done their duty: sacrificing their sad little cabbagey lives, one after the other, so her family might live. Blurred through the lens of her tears, it broke her heart to see the battered shapes of the survivors being ground into pulp.

"There ain't nothin' here, lady," declared the cabbie, "'cept some kinda dump, and that rott'n old house that's bein' tore down."

Touching the back of her hand to her eyes, Nora blinked back the stinging tears. Her driver's uncaring tone reminded her the world was an uncaring place, and falling to pieces in maudlin sentimentality wasn't going to change that. Honestly! Tears over cabbages—whatever was wrong with her?

"That rotten old house, I'll have you know, is _my_ _family's_ rotten old house, and it's _not_ being torn down," Nora sniffed defiantly; but she muttered her words carefully under her breath, wanting to give this uncaring man and his cavalier attitude what for, but feeling too spent to try to explain. Recovering her bearings, if not her composure, Nora was a little shocked to discover she'd given this address in the first place: but then, from deep within, she found the strength for a half-hearted laugh. Her new, correct address would never be believed, and this one, at least, got her within walking distance.

"It ain't funny, lady, an' if this ain't where ya wanna go, yer wastin'… Hey!" The cabbie interrupted himself with his own exclamation, his eyes widening in surprise. "Will ya looky up there at the Chocolate Factory! It's all lit up! Like daylight!" The cabbie's hand tapped the steering wheel reflexively, and he let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be."

Nora turned her head to the glow of light her carousel of emotions hadn't let her notice before, at the top of the hill.

"I ain't seen it lookin' like that since afore that Wonka fella' closed the place down." The grizzled man sat back in his seat, shaking his head with childlike wonder at the spectacular sight. "Ain't it somethin'?"

Her cabbie was right. The usually dark Chocolate Factory was ablaze in light. A soft smile crept on to Nora's face: she had wondered if she should wait till morning to return—it was very late, and she had no idea Willy's views on late night excursions—but this took the guesswork out of it. The Factory looked lovely, and beckoning: bright white lights shone in lantern sconces built into the outer wall, with the buildings and chimneys bathed in brilliant blues.

Nora's soft smile became a full-fledged grin, and she laughed merrily. This was probably Willy's idea of leaving a light on in the window. "Take me up there, please. It's so pretty. Let's go and see it up close."

"Right you are, lady," agreed her driver cheerfully. He coaxed his transmission into first gear, and stepped on the gas.

* * *

"You sure yer gonna be okay up here, lady?" It baffled the cabbie that his withdrawn, sorta mousey fare had opted to end her trip at the top of the hill, outside the very gates of the mysteriously lit up Chocolate Factory. "It's late, ya know, an' there ain't nothin' open up here now. T' tell ya the truth, even bein' lit up an' all, bein' this close t' this factory a' night is givin' me the creeps."

Nora leant forward to pay the man, his uneasiness prompting her to counter with lightheartedness. "What would Mr. Wonka say, if he heard you calling his Chocolate Factory creepy?" She stifled a giggle, knowing she was paying this man with Willy Wonka's money—albeit twice removed—and for waiting for her without dropping the meter, Nora included a generous tip.

The cabbie, glad of the hefty tip that would mean a special treat for his family—maybe part of it some Wonka candy—looked flummoxed by the question and his passenger's attitudinal about-face. "It don't matter what Wonka says, lady. He ain't gonna hear nothin' I say."

Nora tossed her head and whispered back impishly, "Well, if Mr. Wonka 'ain't gonna hear nothin',' then he's going to hear something. You said it yourself— look how close to his Factory we are. It wouldn't surprise me if Mr. Wonka didn't have this _whole_ area bugged."

The cabbie blanched, looking fretfully this way and that, but catching himself, he felt like a fool. This woman, gettin' in his face about his grammar, didn't know any more about Wonka than he did. "Yer pullin' my leg, lady, and I gotta go. You gonna be okay or not?"

Nora smiled, amused by her cabbie's bravado, and touched by his concern. "I'll be fine," she said, as she stepped out of the cab. Now that she was actually standing on the pavement in front of the Factory, her lightheartedness evaporated, and she closed the door with a confidence she didn't feel. Her voice carried conviction, but Nora wondered if what she said was true. She still wasn't inside, and she had no clue how Willy would react to her fraternizing with his godfather. She hoped Terence would have stopped her, if it was a really bad idea, but honestly, she wouldn't have listened to him, and fiddle-dee-dee, Terence didn't know everything—and he wasn't in charge of _her_.

Seeing his generous tipper just standing there, the cabbie hesitated; but the squawking of his radio alerted him to another fare, so with a shake of his head and a muttered "It's yer neck, lady"—on account of the bugging comment—he drove away.

* * *

Nora watched the cab roar off in a cloud of bluish exhaust, and with the street now devoid of anything moving, she hesitantly tried the Chocolate Factory's left hand gate. The cabbie was right again: it _was_ her neck: but the gate opened easily at her touch, and the breath she let out in relief was louder than the slight sound made by the magnetic lock on the gate releasing. The bugs and cameras the cabbie doubted existed were working perfectly, and the gate's opening proved she was still on the 'insider' list.

Taking a calming breath, Nora stood inside the gate and studied the Factory's expansive courtyard. In the moonlight, it loomed before her like a sinister No Man's Land, and for a moment, Nora shivered to think she crossed it at her peril. "Don't be a silly goose," she whispered. The sound of her own voice was soothingly familiar, and she scolded herself for letting the cabbie's creepy assessment make her jumpy. Even so, making her own assessment, Nora decided to hug the wall, as she had seen Willy do.

Her fingertips lightly brushing the cold stones reassuringly, Nora walked along the wall until she reached the loading bays. She had driven the truck from here, but the closed up bays were uninviting, and she wasn't of a mind to look for another way in. Following the bays toward the main building, she crossed the remaining bit of courtyard, and boldly strode up the steps to the left most door of the entrance complex. Gingerly trying it, Nora found that it, too, on silent, well-oiled hinges, opened easily.

Whew! She was in! The Chocolate Factory—cracked! With relief Nora sagged against the door, her hand still on the handle. She stayed that way for a moment, and thought about her next problem: how to get from here to the suite. Then she laughed, and stood up, because the route was a mystery to her and the Factory was huge. She didn't stand a snowball's chance of finding her way on her own. Willy must know that. Nora took a step forward, and then another, and another, until she was through the narthex, and into the main hall. There, on the floor, sitting on a petit, golden doily, she spotted movement.

"You're not a breadcrumb," Nora laughed, picking up the small, inanimate object responsible for the movement. "You're a Square-Candy-that-Looks-Round, and you look darn cute. Are you playing breadcrumb tonight?" Nora looked around for another one, that might show her the direction to go, a clever idea, but there were no more Square-Candies. There was Willy Wonka, standing like a statue, in a shadow in a recessed area along the wall.

* * *

_Warmest thanks to **dionne dance** and **Celeste K. Raven** for your reviews. __I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think._


	8. Reaction

"Breadcrumbs attract ants," said Willy somberly, his face deadly serious—as if he thought sugar didn't. What a hoot _that _was, and inwardly, Willy was laughing.

Nora's hand dropped to her side, still holding the candy. She'd never seen Willy not nervous before, and Willy was not nervous. So assured was this person, she thought someone might be playing a trick: dressing like Willy to fool her. It didn't seem likely Willy would wait up to escort her back to her family himself.

Now that he was sure Nora had seen him, Willy stepped smoothly out of the shadows, halting well before he was within arm's reach of her.

It was no trick: as he stepped into the light, Nora could see it was really Willy. Though caught off-balance at seeing him, after what she'd learned about Willy's past this evening, her first inclination was to step toward him and lay her hand comfortingly on his arm—a touch said so much more than words, and far less clumsily—but the distance Willy so purposefully kept between them made that a non-starter. Of course. With a twinge of sadness at all that Willy was missing by avoiding even simple human contact, Nora raised her hand with the Square Candy in it to her heart instead.

Willy had known it would throw Nora for a loop if he met her himself, but—an unexpected surprise—he hadn't known what a time of it he'd have keeping a straight face. It was the darnedest thing! The breadcrumbs and sugar bit aside, hearing Nora talk out loud to a Square-Candy, and call it darn cute, was darn funny. Willy stood taller to make it easier to stay serious, consciously bringing his keen amethyst eyes to bear on her. Willy was dying to know how he felt about whatever Nora had heard tonight, and he wouldn't know that until he knew how _she_ felt about whatever she'd heard tonight. This was his golden opportunity to find out—and he almost laughed putting it that way—but Willy believed he wouldn't find out the truth unless he came across as imposing, and that meant no laughing.

Willy, having already taken his turn, stood majestically, waiting for Nora to take hers. What she said next, and how she said it, would tell him lots.

Nora took a step back, as if the thoughts running through her head needed more room. The glow of the Factory, lit up for the first time in years; the charmingly whimsical candy welcome; the glimpse into Willy's past; Charlie's adoration and complete trust of this man; the caliber of the people she was meeting who knew and thought the world of him; his generous invitation to her family to come and live in his Factory, despite the harm it might do him: when did all these separate things combine to become a heap? A heap of evidence that this oddly somber someone sizing her up, was someone on whose side she now knew she unequivocally wanted to count herself. Why, good gracious, that would be tonight: right this minute!

Willy was studying her thoughtfully, waiting for her, and resisting the urge to squirm—Willy _never_ looked at you directly, so this was very strange—thoughtfully Nora realized she only felt intense curiosity. There was no feeling of mistrust: neither from him nor for him. Had the mistrust she'd felt up to now been a reflection of the mistrust Willy felt? He certainly had cause. Nora quickly averted her eyes as one of those causes popped into her head: those braces. Try as she might, Nora couldn't resist imagining those braces, on this man, and wanting to get off on the right foot with him now, she knew that what her mind was up to was the wrong foot, absolutely. Not being able to stop herself, Nora did her best to look away.

She still wasn't speaking and looking for a clue, his deep violet eyes steady, Willy catalogued every nuance of Nora's movements, minutely analyzing each one. He was rusty at this now, but he'd been good at it once. Then it had been a matter of survival. First cradling The Eyes in her palm, protectively bringing it close to her heart, Nora had thoughtfully taken a step back, giving him more space. Willy liked that, and almost smiled. Then she hastily averted her eyes, but at the same time—the nervous flicks of her head in his direction giving her away—itched to look at him.

One side of Willy's jaw clenched in a lopsided frown. That behavior meant only one thing: she'd seen the braces. Willy carefully kept his shoulders square, but sighed almost silently all the same: That mare's nest. He knew if she'd seen the photos, it would be irresistible _not_ to try to imagine those, but at least Nora was doing the right thing—looking away—so determined to see this through, Willy stayed put. It wasn't so bad: Nora seemed as nervous as he, and he was doing a _far _better job than she of faking aplomb. Pleased with himself, before Nora could see it, Willy let go his frown and likewise squashed the lurking smile that threatened to replace it. Nora's absence aside, dinner had gone very well, and so far, Nora's return wasn't going badly either. It was hard to keep his good spirits under wraps, but remaining remote was important in this game.

While he waited for her move—Nora was taking a bizarrely long time to think up something to say—Willy wondered idly if he should drop on over to Libby's, and pick up those photos—why, gosh darn it, _were_ they still floating around? The Dentist was long out of the picture—and having got his hands on 'em, he could burn 'em—yeah, burn 'em: that's it— Willy's mind floated on. An icky, inky, revolting little delicacy for his fiery friend the incinerator to enjoy. Hm. The image of the flames, tenderly licking the edges of the curling, shrinking sheets—turning them into tiny pieces of blackened ash—was inviting lovely; and wasn't it funny—before the blackness, the chemicals on those sheets would burn in a riot of glorious colors. Hm, again… his focus beginning to stray with these toasty imaginings, Willy lifted his index finger and thumb to his chin, considering.

Catching the motion, the image of the braces imagined and banished, Nora turned back to find Willy surprisingly lost in thought, but his eyes flashed back on her instantly, the hand on his chin dropping like lightning to his side, once he realized she had turned.

Nora was again struck by the difference in Willy's demeanor tonight: in place of the nervous Nelly she knew, bent on avoiding people at all costs, stood a man the picture of confidence: daunting in a way that verged on frightening, even with that hat and silly haircut. Was this the way Willy was in his Factory? Or the way he was when he knew you better? Or, Nora gulped involuntarily, the way Willy was when he _didn't care_ to know you better?

Nora thought of the newspaper interviews given by the bratty kids and their parents after the tour, finding their harsh characterizations of the famous Chocolatier, in this manifestation of the man, believable. Standing here, Willy was like a cactus: though immobile, unapproachable. Maybe this was the way Willy was when you were in big trouble. Nora had no idea, and letting her imagination run rampant, speculating, wasn't doing her any good.

Nora turned to the small talk remedies she'd been taught to use in awkward situations like this, discarding every one. Late, isn't it? Still up? Nice night. Dinner good? She knew they were all as wrong as they were obvious. It didn't help that she never imagined Willy would greet her return himself. Ahlia, perhaps—no, too young to stay up—but maybe one of the other Oompa-Loompas: she'd met a few more today. Why not Noah, with a map? She knit her brow in consternation. Noah was a man of few words, but he was adaptable: maybe by now, Noah didn't need a map.

Growing tired of waiting for Nora to say something, and judging it a bad sign she hadn't, Willy subtly shifted his stance, his appraising eyes now half-closed, but still never leaving her. Deliberately slowly, he swapped his walking stick to his other hand, managing to make the meaningless exchange somehow ominous.

Nora was running out of time to say the right thing, and she knew it. Willy couldn't know she'd changed her mind about him—Again! She bit her lip with regret at how not-so-long her 'undying' gratitude lasted—if she didn't tell him. Watching him, she knew it was only a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before he dismissed her as a lost cause, and turned away: politely ignoring her—possibly for years: Joe could vouch that Willy was a master at that. Nora dreaded the place on the sidelines Willy was going to make for her. But how do you tell him, without opening up old wounds, or embarrassing him?

Still at a loss, Nora started to feel panicky, her mind racing. What did you think?—her brain purred at her relentlessly. This is why he's here: to find out what you think! To stall for another speck of time, Nora cleared her throat. The little eyes on the candy in her hand moved at the noise, and she looked down to see them looking up at her. Her brain clicked onto a new track. If doing the right thing, was the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, was the right thing. She caught her breath. If that was the case, a completely out-of-line, none-of-her-business, insensitive question was the right thing. Ridiculous, but with nothing else coming to mind, Nora took the chance. After all, she'd be saying it to a man who made candies too adorable to eat.

Taking a deep breath, standing straight and tall, Nora looked her would be benefactor boldly in the eye. "How can you possibly be so cheerful, Willy, after all that?"

Her artful question releasing him the right way from his dreadful suspense, Willy giggled fiendishly. He moved his walking stick diagonally across his chest, protectively, but Nora saw his eyes, and they were sparkling. Her heart skipped a beat at her daring, but thanking her lucky stars, she was glad to find herself on the right track.

"See Spot run," said Willy, bringing the giggle under control, his face falling slowly back into its somber cast. "Run, Spot, run." Staying somber continued to prove difficult for him, and with a little flourish, he relaxed his grip on his walking stick, returning it to his side. The giggle was in appreciation for Nora's standing tall, refusing to be cowed, but this wasn't over yet.

Having answered Nora's question, perfectly reasonably in his view, but in a way he knew most parens—heck! Why fight it?—most people considered cryptic and obscure, Willy waited expectantly for the shadow of annoyance, or worse, to flit across her face. If it did, that would tell him more about what he wanted to know.

In another unexpected, but pleasing surprise, Willy saw no flit, and the game was still on. Whatever Nora had heard, had made her more tolerant, without any sign of pity. Willy loathed pity directed at him, almost as much as he loathed eating breakfast cereal. Almost, because pity directed at a man of his wealth was highly unlikely, but you never knew when you might run across breakfast cereal: it was everywhere. Increasingly interested, Willy waited for Nora's next move.

Nora knew a non-sequitur when she heard one, but she'd been around Willy long enough now to know, that what might seem random made perfect sense if you saw it from Willy's perspective. The trick was seeing it from Willy's perspective, and she despaired of that. It would take years, she knew, to learn—if that was even possible. Confused about how to keep going—but knowing Willy expected her to—she studied the carpet, as if written in its threads what to do next would leap out at her. It wasn't, and it didn't, but something better did: from nowhere—in a supernova of insight—it dawned on Nora that only Willy knew where Willy was coming from, and no one but Willy ever would. So the trick wasn't figuring out where Willy was coming from if you couldn't guess: the trick was knowing he was coming from _somewhere_, and letting him explain. The laughter of salvation bubbled out of her, and she looked up with a smile.

Willy's somber expression was gone, replaced by a sly smile of his own. If Nora was laughing, she was on to something, and it might be the right something. Hallelujah!

Caught off-balance by her own boldness, and his openness, Nora looked at Willy shyly, but Willy, for Charlie's sake as much as his own, nodded encouragingly: for a paren, Nora was doing well.

Nora took another deep breath. "That's from a book."

Willy nodded. "It is. A book any four, almost five-year old, can read." No flit, and assumed sense: that was enough for Willy, for now. With the evaluation satisfactorily over, there was no need to explain further and Willy moved on. He felt fine about Nora spending the evening with Libby: points and bonus points for both. Using the top of his walking stick, Willy pointed to the Square-Candy-that-Looks-Round and asked unguardedly, "Are you gonna eat that?"

Rolling with the change of subject, Nora sensed in Willy's now relaxed manner and casual speech she had crossed a line she needed to cross, and she was still standing. Relief filled her, and she answered as if talking to an old friend. "My father eats them, but I can't. They look at you, and they're too cute."

"I've heard that," Willy sighed, tilting his head. "Darn cute."

Nora ducked her head. Willy was funny, but she was serious about her reasoning for not eating them, and didn't want to laugh.

The tip of the walking stick tapped the carpet, once, quickly. "He's the grumpy one."

Nora looked back up, surprised Willy was continuing the conversation. "Sometimes."

"Why did he try to follow me?"

The fact that Willy Wonka wondered about people, when everyone she knew wondered about Willy Wonka, tickled Nora immensely, and she abandoned trying not to laugh, giggling like a school girl. "That was the morning you took Charlie's model of the Factory to your office."

"My model of the Factory," Willy interrupted, standing stiffly. "Charlie gave it to me." He looked at her reprovingly from under his hat, and the eyes she could just see, peeking out from under the brim, were dark. "You know that. You were there."

Nora's heart missed another beat, afraid she'd broken the tenuous thread of understanding just spun between them; but as she tended to assume the worst, she decided to assume the best: if Willy took words literally, literally, he was right. Nora swallowed, and forged back into the explanation. "I… um… stand corrected— the morning you took what was formerly Charlie's model of the Factory to your office."

Nora paused, happy to see Willy nod, and relax once more. "Dad wanted to tell you that when you announced The Golden Ticket Contest, he told the family the closest any of us were ever going to get to your Factory was Charlie's," Nora wasn't taking any chances, "now your, model. He wanted to point out he was right and wrong— the model made it to the Factory, and so did we." Nora smiled. "He thought having the model, you'd like hearing the background."

Willy flashed a genuine grin: these parens were on the right page. "He was right. Unexpected irony. I like it." The 'Charlie's, now your, model' she had thrown in for good measure was a tad more literal than even he would be, but flights of fancy demanded accuracy, or they became flights of folly, and folly could hurt you: in big ways. Keeping the details straight was a good way to keep yourself straight, and if he was someday going to let them roam around the Factory on their own, they needed to grasp that, and take it seriously. Whether she knew it or not, Nora was already learning.

Lifting his walking stick, Willy pointed at the golden doily on the floor. "You can keep that. It's part of the irony."

"Irony?"

"About the Factories. Maybe if you use the doily to display The Eyes, your pater won't eat it." Willy giggled as if they were co-conspirators. "The Eyes, I mean— not the doily."

Nora smiled. Willy had made a joke: a simple joke, but he had included her. She felt good: Terence and Charlie: Move over! Without voicing the objection she'd have made earlier in the day, Nora scooped up the small, intricate, golden doily. Libby's earlier question about the fates of successful apprentices was still unanswered in her head, but Willy's comment about irony was making her think: accepting this doily might be about one of them.

Nora could only think of two fates for successful apprentices, and Libby, having asked the question, didn't answer it. Nora held the delicate object admiringly in her hand. Neither path seemed possible here: apprentices strike out on their own, or they take over the business. If the latter, this doily would be Charlie's. Is that what Willy meant when he said the irony of the Factories? That he had Charlie's, and Charlie would one day have his? Did Willy mean that one day, this _entire _Factory would be Charlie's?

Standing in the great Chocolate Factory itself, Willy Wonka standing not three feet from her, the thought made Nora catch her breath. Willy was undeniably making a place for them: if she was right, it meant a dream she'd never dared dream for Charlie—who dreamed himself, every day and night, he might be a part of this Factory—had come true in a way even Charlie had never dared dream.

Happy to see Nora pocket the doily without the expected helping of tiresome fussing, with a twirl, Willy threw his walking stick into the air, and deftly caught it. "Home James! No— that's Terence, and he's already home. Your turn! Follow me."

Having risen, Nora saw that Willy was already headed back toward the shadow he'd appeared from: the vestibule with the spiral staircase, and port for the Great Glass Elevator. "Willy?" Nora was too keyed up now to sleep, and making the most of this, she had another question.

Willy stopped, though not impatiently, and turned back, barely hesitating before he answered. "Yes?"

Without the high squeak of nervousness, Willy's voice was melodious. Terence and Charlie were probably used to it, but Nora wasn't. She played back the sound of the 'yes' in her head.

Weight on one leg, his head cocked expectantly, Willy stood easily, his walking stick an afterthought loosely balanced in his gloved hand. Nora's questioning tone when she called out his name made him perfectly content to let her take all the time she liked. After what he'd implied, she might have an inkling, and if she had… well, wouldn't _that _be drôle.

Nora took the plunge: "The irony you mentioned— do you always say so much, saying so little?"

Willy's answering laughter was gentle indeed. "There's many a slip twixt cup and lip," he said softly, in a velvety voice Nora had never heard before. "I'll grant you you're a quick study, but I haven't said a thing."

* * *

_Warmest thanks to **dionne dance** and **Celeste K. Raven** for your very welcome reviews. I'm not fond of cliffhangers, but this and the previous chapter would have been far too long as one, and that, __I'm sad to say, __was the likely place to put the break._

_I do not own_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading and I do hope you'll let me know your impressions. _


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